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there’s cobwebs

on your side of the bed.

not the same bed,

across state lines

in a town by the coast

where no one knows our names.

I am afraid to disturb them,

to make a space as unfillable 

as the miles between my window

and the haunting moon.

I am afraid most days,

as memory slides into silk shadows

lurking on the edges of rest

like cobwebs

on your side

of the wrong bed.

so they stay

empty remnants of something crawling

out of the night, soaked in the same black light

that welcomed us in the escape of foggy houses

into foggier backseats and forgotten drives home.

I suspect now the cobwebs were there, too;

on the edges of my old bedroom, watching

while we laughed so loud I could pretend

not to hear the whispering voices

reminding me of where we end.

I always leave before I see the spiders.

Now I will try to wait.



◄ not-love


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