There, tell me you see me, there

in the nebula of people
in the flutter of hands
in the reeking pits of oblivion.
There, tell me you see me, there
in the dense midnight
elongated down the cheek of girls
that always wear a broken sock.
There, tell me you see me, there
thickening the juice of inner peace
escaping the sunset and perhaps
crossing a bridge, small and necessary
whole-blooded, subject to a time
where I am not wise, just painful.
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