TALKING TO MYSELF

You are driving home again —
it is night after a long day —
glasses on your forehead

on top of thoughts for tomorrow.
But there I go again.
I am the rain on the windshield,

the lights coming into focus
(the grocery, the pharmacy
marquee) and I become

the others who surround you,
those who love you
and those who fill you with a still loneliness,

with what is inevitable:
a cataclysmic morning
when you stare doubt in the face

and some days you conquer it
and some days you vomit
and then there are the days

I will hold you and say, breathlessly,
that it won’t always be this way — 
everything will be okay

if you think so —
and if I.

 

 

 

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