I see less of you every day
and your face asks quiet questions
if it’s broken, can it be fixed?
if not, where can I throw it away?
the way we see the road is our heart
and in the end, we are only the dust on our boots
and the sound of a closed door
we can’t have broken glass all the time
we can’t have the wind
and all of that golden grass
that looks like hair and heaven
pull it out
by the roots
and chuck it
I can’t answer for you
your silence, agony and heat
we have broken back to the surface
a sweet-sour wavering slump
and suck the sugar from each other’s lips
and fingers
but find nothing
but the salt of an ocean
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