Erasure

Sitting on a bench at 4:27PM,

burnt cheeks and glossy eyes.

The thought of you warrants

a pained laugh, a stifled exhale.

What was it like to want you near?

 

Reflections on the water almost

look like you, somehow like

the way you’d look at me.

Softened, deepend, delicate.

The passerbyer’s cigarette

smells like you, too.

 

I distract myself by counting

clovers instead of replaying

your words, hearty sentiments

that time turned empty.

They often echo in the quiet

air you left behind.

 

And now, in your silence,

I have to tell myself it all meant nothing.

 

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