Garbage Post: Done Here 80

Wet pavement nights are perfect to close a suitcase and leave.

Pack your brightest lines, stuff your heavy cares, written works folded under a pair of blindfolds.

Plenty of restraint as well, all you can you bear then turn every light off.

We’re done here. We are done here.

Just for a little while become an island, just for a little while.

Why come back? Is anything important here?


Shouldn’t be thinking about it, but when did I ever see the real you?

Shouldn’t give this another thought, but when could I ever call you mine?

Here, but might as well be a couple of planets down.

I feel foolish, putting material yearly on these lines.

Dreaming of empty emptiness, writing for busywork.

Should have kept focus above, above, above.

Who did I think I was? The difference?

Humbled immediately, humbled until I saw the sea, expectations floating underneath way out of reach.

Who did I think I was?

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