when I think of this
last time
seeing her again,
nor is it the jumble
of broken machine parts
grinding my insides out,
as it was back then,
the last time before
the last time when
she claimed she hated me
I just feel empty,
a huge space,
vacant of those
things,
no movement
just the endless echoes
of my own foolish
footsteps,
missteps,
turnarounds,
a dizzying emptiness
I have yet to fill,
no heavy machinery
to manufacture the panic
I once felt,
maybe just the
buzzing of bees
though with no hive
for me to taste honey,
she as unchanged in
reality
as the photographs
I keep hidden,
private treasures
I also keep as copies in my head,
the same deep set eyes,
the same slanted
lips,
the same long legs
whose strides took her
passed me,
there like a spider.
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