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Humans in My Pocket

Humans have always been
A thing that I’ve carried,
A lustful sin,
A burdensome love.

In my pocket I collect them
Like butterfly wings,
Or rugged cystals.

They have multiplied in design
As I have grown older-
In age,
In ethnicity,
In beliefs.

Unlike friends,
Only a shade of their being remains in my coat,
A memory and a photograph.




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