I'm not moving, I'm just standing still.
In this shit you left me, I'm glad you left me.
I've learned three things this year:
like my dependency on beer,
how sweat feels in my eyes,
and how you depend on your lies.
You can't apologize enough for feeling sorry for leaving.
It doesn't help at all that each time you do, I still don't believe it.
So I've made shapes out of your left over belongings;
a hand empty through old age,
a new bed for each turned page,
a perfume bottle I can't stand to see,
someone who actually needs me.
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