reaching again
from one bar to the next
none low enough from where I sit
bluelit in the backseat
the head on my neck between one mask and the next
another treat to chase
running from the work of tears to come
I make room for strangers in brittle boned arms
too weak to keep the score
fine enough for hanging fantasies
to scroll into decay
I am happy without thinking
with the masses
on my phone
I smile through every gap
the headlines bleed into my dreams
distraction
or some other kind of drug
diluting the subconscious just enough to keep the rain
something else to witness
cause enough to ghost the mirror
til I’m running out of laundry
and I find myself again
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