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days, hours, minutes
Those kings of convenience that watch
us on top of the world,
our earthly vassals long since
departed from the bay,
the crows that pick apart
our hearts to peer inside,
only to see
how desolate and empty they are,
our minds so full of chaos and much
to do about nothing,
nothing and everything,
all at the same,
like the time that you ran a car into the
wall of that corner store,
where you worked
and packed things so neatly in
plastic bags,
a standing testimony
of our wasteful ways,
of our time spent together;
days, hours, minutes,
I have so desperately counted
but now you left my heart a mess
and there's no one left to clean it up.
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