untitled poem 2

As a teenager, I drank
hatred like an animal
glutted at the stream
its stomach distended.

If I could hate
you, I would
let that feeling wash over
drown out the memories from a summer night
flights across the country, the comfort
of knowing who is in the other room.

Instead, I stagger against
a love that has passed
removed like the pictures
from our walls and unsettled
as the dust that still
swirls with the particles
we left behind.

— Last night, I listened to Wilco and played guitar. Helped to get out of a rut. Guess this is a continuation of that same idea.

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