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  • Lena Drake

Come Home

And how is this the same body that bent at the small of the back, en route to the moon—stopstopSTOP—lest you arrive too soon. And after you’ve been taken by relief might you look back and think… how sad to leave this all behind. Rewind. It was a Thursday afternoon, you entered the room, large and certain, small and lost, mine and found. I kissed you, you can open your eyes. I kissed you, you can open your eyes. Open your eyes. I forgot something, I forgot to tell you—I forgot. You’ve been gone so long, ain’t it time to come home? You preferred being alone. Too much of anything, we call it gluttony. **a grumble is heard** I haven’t gotten my fill, haven’t figured it out, how to finish a day without fraying at the edges that revert to gray. How to remember your voice in my head in my bed in the shriek of night mid-fight you pretending everything was alright. Didn’t we die those days a million ways but one. Won’t you miss the sun? My smile, you called it. My name, you’ll forget. Your hands, so warm. And how is this the same body I remember.

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