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Hold me until this feeling passes,
this feeling that I’ve been left behind

the blunt ache of a closing wound
of a purpose that used to believe in me

the taste of hunger as I eat the dust
of those who have blazed the trail
in pursuit of their bliss,
those who have brightly burned in the night
to turn their promise into flesh

while I languish in a standstill twilight
of being,
counting stars and folding away
clothes that belong to another time.

Their honesty blinds me sometimes.
And when the words to the song
they dance to
speak about the “others who sleep”,
I feel that they are talking about me.

From the corner of my eye
I see their towers rising
and from my restless hands
absent are the calluses
from helping build the bridges
that are making the world smaller
as we speak

while I exhale stale air,
the sheets knotted in starkly lit
conversations I cannot breathe in,
and pressing my head against the glass
watching the descending snow,
envying the potency of its silence
and the dreams it inspires
in those who have made peace
with the winter that falls from within.

“Shoreditch Nights” by photographer Andre Adams


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