Early August

Ghost people come and go — married men

Crawl back to their bitter wives

And teen runaways head home


People have walked away without excuses 

For the lack of fabricated intimacy

And concern for your daily tragedies

But if you stop to think,

These days haven’t been so lonely


Tiny sweat drops, microscopic sand on my face and pale freckled chest —

The sun shines through our veil of melancholy

Yet I wouldn’t call this unhappiness


I’ve put my hope in a distant tomorrow




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