In this half-hour, between then and now, I dream of you. Cold coffee. Finger tips. All our love like bats wings. Things, semi-permanent. These days. These running hours. I am not you. Or her. I read poetry from the top of mountains. That is to say down. And distant. If Neruda tried to rise from the page. Paz attempts to cleave the page and tumble me down. No. no. There's no words that could make me go. I am measured. And steady on. I am not a half-hour, in between. Anything. I am the you that makes me stand. Up at the top of the hill where the street lamp flickers and the dogs howl and the chain link fencing clinks. And there are real fears. Real disasters to cling to. Real heights to fall from.


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