Leave your head on that pillow.
We were staring straight through time.
God, it's strange how very little
this moment has to do with pride.
I feel we're meeting in the middle,
outside of you
outside of I.
I don't know why it seems this way, my dear,
but the more we leave behind
of all the strength we're told to coddle,
the more our tears to intertwine,
and bathe us there in the middle:
It steals the permanence from dying.
I know we've had but very little time
before you let go your hands from mine,
but things like your face in blue alarm clock's glow,
pieces of you you left behind
are still there
In the middle, where I go from time to time
To clear my head from all the rabble,
and of that night you do remind,
and of your head on that pillow.
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