In the surreptitious nature of disembowlment, I found that which I believ'd lost: an anecdotal memory,
in which I am not, but there is
& according to professionals, perhaps.
But what is there, behind the frosted, tinted, ambiguous lucidity of a promise,
after all the lights are off, and everyone has gone home,
And I am left waiting for you,
but of course, I am not there
and you are; this is what
good enough is.
somewhere along the road,
I rediscovered disillusion
and it felt like running into an old friend.
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