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  • Your face contorts wildly
    the gears that once wound it so brilliantly are failing,
    and you stare at me blankly.
    You stop processing.
    Like the common paper jam
    that often impedes printers from printing.
    You're temporarily situated with a brain jam,
    when your body commences to ripple in self-anguish.
    Then there was me.
    The sympathetic interrogator, with a feisty gaze
    that is so sharp
    it cuts buildings apart.
    We sat in your ocean blue bed
    whose comfort we retained from it
    felt like the blue ocean itself.

    My mouth spurted knives that
    stabbed your mind with the cold-hearted
    It took you
    five, six, seven, eight minutes
    to release the heavy-weighted cargo of consciousness
    from your wounded soul.

    You asked me to forgive you.
    That it was an accident.
    It's okay, really.
    Your flailing is genuine enough
    to pass as a sorry. Not to me.
    But to the sweetheart it belonged to.
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