I’ll work the life from my bones

I’ll work the
life from my bones.
Walk wearylike home
if that means to be prized
by you.

Who was I to think that I could
capture your heart so guarded?
Who were you to feign emotion
so well?

Quell these thoughts –
disarrange the pattern
that batters the brain.

Have I not had enough
of these messages
constantly sent by a part of me
I’d rather never know?

Served once more,
battered by a war I have long since
stopped fighting,
I feel the absence of you
again and again and again
until the weight causes the water in my
eyes to erupt.

They haven’t your accent,
but theirs will do for now.

Every writing I commit,
every action I set – is only in the
vain attempts to prove myself, I admit.

Isn’t it funny how wherever I go,
there is a memory of you?
A haunting, an etching
that makes this city only
an extension of you.

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