Past imperfect

 nobody owes you
 the story you want
 to believe or the
 reason you need to
 wake up over again
 
 we are all just I
 waiting for the truths
 unforgiving friends
 decline to give or
 blind us from in error
 
 so listen to myths
 or walk in moonlight
 watch the water run
 through your fingers like
 misplaced rosary prayers
 
 balance on the arc
 and trust what I say
 that this is complete
 in its dissembling
 and honesty because

 it takes a rare pain
 to bring me to this
 plain confessional 
 table where I sit
 and look after the sun 
 
 watching distant stars
 stutter and occlude
 as kisses dissolve
 long after lights out
 and way past our bedtime 

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