5.14.2004

Once It Was Me

Time doesn't seem to count
On the nights like these,
With that unexplainable feeling
Of too little hanging over me,
Like the lights that
Painted our togetherness on the floor.
I feel emptied,
A glass of spilt milk
Waiting to be refilled,
Especially on the nights like these.
Your words were kind
But belonged to someone else.
They chant into memory
Our moments of a year ago
That sour as I ponder them.
I sought this solitude
But never wanted to find it -
Not like this.
Every day I feel I am running
From a hunter that never catches me
And never loses me,
And I don't know whether victory
Is escaping or being caught.
It doesn't matter;
Nothing matters but the hard table
Beneath my elbows,
The cold November air
That sneaks in the windows,
And the rain that melts
Harshly into the pavement outside.

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