run my mouth, or

it’s

   too

      quiet

                  in

                           here.

i am bereft;

 my hips still curve in the shape of your palms around them.

the bed is smeared with your tangled contour lines

(continuous line, not blind, never blind) and

 my feet keep sinking into your prints in the carpet,

warm from your last great voyage.

 if i close my eyes, my hands automatically form your outline.

all the while,

 i am grasping at air.

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