this is the wrong time
to be thinking that
I just can't help it
perhaps because
I've never stopped
still thinking what
I thought back then
when she shook me up
and shocked me
now I am thinking of
nothing else
even when I see the
rage in her eyes
across the table from
me
I'm caught up with
the tilt of her lips
or how she sits
or how she fills the
room with her presence
her scent; her sense of being
something in this
small, small fish bowl
in which I swim
all that I think
what I thrive on
nothing short of world ending catastrophe
will stop me
still this is the wrong time
this aftermath with me
still sinking in
quicksand
now nearly up to my eyes
why do I stare at empty space
and imagine how she
might fill it
if she had the mind
to
the curves she
possesses
which I can't help but notice
even when I'm an
uninvited outcast
the man up to his eyes and sand
and still sinking
still thinking this
I should not think
when
I ought to be
thinking how to survive
yet how does anyone me or the man on the moon
survive without her
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