The loop of hellos, good lucks,
good jobs, and goodbyes
winding through my thoughts,
a scratched record, makes you a toy
for my nomad mind’s distraction
as I try to forget the last goodbye
spoken by the opposite departing
of our feet, dragged by convention.
Your memory like a discrepancy
in the blueprints I had commissioned
for my architectural growth;
a separate scrap of navy paper
needs to be crafted to discard the lingering
ghost, scarring my lopsided heart
but I keep hoping “maybe”
like a dirty word, uttered confidently
by faltering, parched lips, that accomplishes
as much as silence ever has.



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