This poem seems haunted to me,
somehow. It feels like I never
loved it enough, like I wrote it
and just rushed on.
Now it sends out its plaint as it always does,
as it always has, maybe always
would
- but with just enough
of
an emptiness,
Echoing through the spaces and lines, that maybe
I could have filled up. Or tried,
I guess
if I could,
I should've
at least with lies
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