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The Morning After
The mirror eyes stare through my transparent face
to observe every memory now gone from the place,
and they count every nothing, and lack of delight
that sprouted from nowhere in this room last night.
The curtains mourn gently, in shuffling stillness
and cast nodding shadows on our unmade bed.
Her shape in the pillow makes me want to lie back there,
but I leave without feeling, forever, instead.
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