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We play with each other’s altitude here in the dark
where do we put words like forgiveness and falling down
last call’s fading light against the grain in the wood
called losing sleep, holding on
never seemed as unlikely as it does right now
and no one calls anymore to check on your life status
they just assume; dead by 31, and five years on
here you persist, ever brambled and worn through
by the creek where we never married
our wings clipped by losing streaks
that never end
I must tell you
a few things
we lost in that fire
I think of nightly
when the shakes
anchor me into the
broken bed frame
and I cry like a baby
left at the fire house
in winter, and in some ways
I really was.

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