and then another night
and then another
not loneliness, really,
and not sorrow
desperation, maybe, which eventually
becomes a type of numbness
nails driven into walls over doorways,
and what the hell used to hang
on any of them?
nothing comes to mind
easier to leave them
where they are
easier to let things
fall apart at their own pace
sit in the hall and
watch the children sleep
listen to the wind
all possible endings are
out there somewhere
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