The ground feels the same
underneath our feet, I'm sure,
though there seems to be more of
it between us these days.
My skin is pink on the nape
of my neck where the sun
hits me on my way to work,
and I'm sure that on some
afternoons you feel it too,
puckered, soft, and flushed.
Sleep must be the same,
perhaps, with constant
tossing, turning, churning...
For my mind can't rest when
it thinks of you or the way
your glasses rest upon your ears.
The lines connecting you and I
are long and thin and taut,
and I know you're there
pulling me back and forth
like some childhood game
I've forgotten about.
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