Missing Socks

August 5, 2011
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Shatter is my favorite word
And I want you to shatter this
In the spaces between your fingers
(What else are they good for?)

Like the time I wanted to show you
The quote I marked in that book of poems
I tore my room apart, but it was lost
(You told me to forget it. It didn’t matter anyway)

I collected quotes like stamps
From all over the world, in languages
I could barely remember those translations
(The same way you collected me)

Or, stop, I collected you.
You were quote that I wanted to whisper
Trace my lips around night after night
(Soon I could hear you in my sleep)

And now all I have are these pieces
These poems and thoughts and failures
That won’t break any smaller between my fingers
(Trust me. I’ve given it the old college try)

And I found that book of poems
Ironic, because you still didn’t want to hear the quote
And I couldn’t remember why I ever liked it
(And that quote never did matter, anyway)

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