People are hard work.  It takes time and effort to be involved, to thread your way through their woven lives, add a new shade, things I don't quite have anymore.

Colors clash, scissors slash, and not all gears mesh.

But sometimes

(I love the word sometimes, it reminds me of possibility, of a sometime, of a near indicated future, of another dimension, of a place where I could and couldn't be)

you find people like you.

A connection, a closeness, a love, call it what you will, it doesn't matter what name 

it has, it matters

what it's made out of, what atoms make

this matter,

what ethics lace

us into each other

making a pair of squeaky sneakers.

I miss you already,

and you're talking to me

and I miss you,

your voice, your face

your detailed seven letter

laughter written upon my screen.

People are hard work,

flowers that bud, bloom, stolen, bent, broken, unable to be fixed, burned, chain sawed to death, blown away.

You're a tree,

and I sit on your elongating branches,


I haven't sung in a long time.

The End

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