Boxes

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Here I am,?sitting in this box,?with the doors all shut ?and taped up so tight ?that I can’t breathe.
?And the stars,?
they wonder why? I’m not visiting them? underneath the murky, black sky, ?and they cry and cry until ?they’ve got nothing left in them, ?and I cry too just a little,
?while quietly whispering “sorry”? and trying to move on.

Those bridges,? I don’t really remember them,? or how yellow they used to be,? but the stained water?does dampen my mind ?with thoughts of that day? and how white the boat was.?
And we’ve tried crossing the river? many times before,
?but we always trip and stumble? and greet the glass below? because we’re too lazy?or awkward? to keep going.

I think of those blue fish,?the cuts running down ?their scaly stomachs,? the army knife you held ?in your thick hands ?beneath shaggy blond hair,? and wonder why; ?why you got too old? to cross the crack in the asphalt ?where I waited for you ?at the other side.

?I’m still trapped in this box,?
where the tape refuses to give,?
and I won’t breathe ?for at least another twenty minutes.?
Nobody dares to whisper here?
and it’s too much quiet to comprehend,?
and my hand aches, it does,
?because all I want?
is to go home.





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