Horrible notions began to strike me
on the nature of communal living
and
communal dying.
Because the more the air smelled like chamomile
and the farther I got away from you
it felt
like the sun had lost its flare.
Sounding far closer to giving up
than you ever did to holding on
I began
to hold my breath.
I'll keep holding it until I see you
with the moon behind your eyes
and
the starlight in your skin.
It's tornado season in my wonderlust
and you're on a one way track to bursting.
I'm forgetting the way
it felt to be alone.
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