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Nighthawks

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There is desire in the greasy food
and the too-bright lights and ugly red tiles
as you wipe your mouth with the
back of your hand.
The waitress comes over, smelling of
cigarettes and tiredness,
plopping the check down without
looking me in the eye,
and as you fumble through your wallet
for change and the coins scatter
on the ground, the space between us
stretches, and for some reason I imagine
sad strangers and revolutions
and the mess of your apartment
and phantoms circling the earth.



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