Glass is meant to be the same
every time it's seen
Illusion of protection
Can we still write those poems,
lovesick
between breaths,
Inches separating histories
Can we still write the poems
about not knowing
why we ever loved them
What do we do
when all of us are lost
at the same time
Can I just admit
I don't know
if there is honor
in remorse
And that I don't want you
to keep paying me
just to charge me when I die
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