I'm digging through a pile to the ceiling
of shoes and books and furniture and little bits of string,
things that have grown up since I let someone see them
the way I do.
And I'm wondering if it was me or him who forced them to,
and what that means I should do tomorrow
after my cup of coffee.
But I ask you how you know you love
the girl who gets off the bus at your stop,
and without a pause, you say, I've never felt this way before,
then you bite into your apple, and you walk out the door.
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