trying not to wonder where you are

so wondery and i have left a few last chances out there in life but i'm counting them into palms now (whatever that means), and there are things i want (like her) and things i need (like to know what happened) and i'm just sitting here, war wounds out and counting up lost time and trying to figure how somehow everything turned inside outand here i am, counting backwards down roads i traveled, moving fingers in reverse angles across maps and trying to figure how it added up to here, and came about as now (without sympathies or mythologies, worsening wind) and fallout clatter is what i've become and somehow don't know how and coming back is more work than i can count or will to muster it's just so easy here and i miss the way your skin smells while you rest in my lap will your head against my head.

how does it happen (without me), this strange life?

2004-02-27 | 6:13 p.m.
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