Nobody could find you at midnight.
I'm beginning to wonder if you were something
made up by my imagination
to push me through the autumn.
I went home with somebody else
and didn't feel anything.
This is why I miss you:
You shook me awake
when everyone else
kept me dull and tired.
You wiped my eyes
clean.
This is a poor description.
I wish I could articulate
you better.
We collect the things that we relate to.
Jars of dandelion, photographs
of county lines, shards of glass. You?
You have not let another person
into your apartment,
and the company you keep
remains a mystery.
I would not know what to give you.
Haunt me.
Be the voice in the night,
the presence in an empty room.
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