I tap my pen slowly against my lips, feel the reverberations
descend like shadows across the lower half of my face. I inhale slowly
the fumes from the lukewarm cup of coffee, sitting wanly
just atop an uncountable pile of papers and folders, names
of countries I haven't traveled to, love songs
to which I can't remember the words. Even now, I have tried to forget
what it smells like between the sheet coverings,
how it feels to dangle my toes off the edge of the bedpost
and pretend I'm keeping warm at night. Beneath
the endless analyses of Nietzsche which I haven't consumed,
sheet music to Beethoven concertos, roomfuls of novels
I regret having purchased, I still watch my reflection
staring back through the windowpane, each gleaming tooth
in my half-open, drooling mouth, each crescent moon shape
creeping dully across my numbed, nearly blissful half-smile,
each dimple on my face that I count as a victory,
all pale reminders of the innumerable times
that I still watched the dawn lights for signs of escape.
Beautiful, and terribly appropriate.
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