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Tonight, my bed is uninviting, and the moon too bright.
I get down on my knees; I send you
a prayer:

I hope you still find strands of my hair
clinging to your sheets, collected in the dryer’s lint trap,
strewn at the back of your dresser drawers.
Despite the figures of my absence-- in lunar cycles and miles--
I sometimes linger in that humming interlude before sleep,
picturing you twisting in those wrinkled sheets,
flipping the pillow only to uncover my lingering scent.

The full moon is glaring; You,
like myself, must be restless
at this witching hour, stringing
words together, our thread-count tripling
as the stars blink out. But,
close that tired moleskine eulogy. Tuck
it in some ill-attended corner of your
room along with the remaining,
waning remnants of me,

and sleep.
I think you should be grateful
About this breakfast I've made and brought to your bed
But "Who the **** are you?!" is what I received instead.
It isn't much,
but you'll help me.
I don't care
for excess.
I only ask for
four walls
and to be happy.

I don't mean
to pretend like I care about
what you think about me,
it's easy watch:
You just gotta care too much.

I don't want her to lose her empathy,
****** if I didn't have somthing  to with that.
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