I wonder if you hear me still.

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Healing (from you)
has stages
dead ends
if not U-turns
bumps, Z’s and forks
under sporadic storms
hardly predictable –
murky rain once
bright pale white
next.

You (in my mind)
are sometimes
a quiet morning breeze;
other times an oppressive
suffocating howl
that deafens logic
with loud memories
of what was
when my pieces
were intact –

we talked
you talked
to me;
I was sure
something had lived.
It’s not fair
I can no longer predict
my world, be assured
of my safety
wellbeing –
(anymore)

I can’t ever tell if my softness will be
(quietly)
compromised
shut up
by the sun
you were my
morning.

All that remains is a
silence; I must
amplify the good
and also the bad
in order to hear anything.
at all. I
lost my sounds
in yours,
where is the wind headed?
where are you?

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