They were always at a door
in a distant land
calling out for me
to come out and
number the patterns in
our spilled friendship

To label their wounds
while I still could

While pitching tents
with clothes drunk
on starch
making tree tops
with chipped nails
fluffy pillows with
escaped thoughts
and a bed of
fond grudges

I waited
for someone to pass through
the cancerous door

and maybe someone did
but it was too late
my clock had struck


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