We are like sculptors, constantly
The shape of him was yours
how funny, I thought, that I had not noticed this before.
Oblivious to the absurdity of it all as it unraveled
Real time surrealism, the kind you cannot pay to see.
When he spoke, it reminded me of you. Of you talking about him.
It made perfect sense.
In the way a really complicated, beautiful pattern makes sense
because you know you will never fully understand it.
And the lines between you grew blurrier still.
For a second, in the dark, I was not sure if you were there.
I was not sure whether I knew you anymore.
I knew I was making a mistake.
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