09 September 2009


Being            your        shoes,
sleeping with   your    enemies,
sunlight   trickled  through    a
crack        in       the              flesh.
I nbsp;dressed           the wound and
forgot about                       you.

Being  in            your        shoes,
I    binged and            purged—
out          of                        purgatory
itself, only scratching  the surface
of    your    deeplyseatedremorse.
I did    not    ache for     you.

I    saw your      wedding photo
in  the paper. You wore  make-up,
had your  hair curled.    You never
wore make-up, and  your hair was
straight.  You  hyphenated the last
I      threw       the      paper       away.

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