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everything seems half-gone.
he was among statues,
our gatherings,
a shadow on the road,
now he’s not.
once, I thought,
if I were to lose him,
i’d be gone.
now, i know
i’d be half-gone.

important things.

some fires burn slow,
allow you to wander in dreams,
a ghost of rooms and things;
they’re supposed to be important,
you think, but can’t remember why.