An open window to a bare night where nothing is funny
The stars push you deeper in your chair
You move against the drag like a cosmonaut in morbid slow motion
Handled air hurts skin
Compounding gravity a subcutaneous ache
Dragging air into smoking tubes
Feels like taking out the trash
A chore you’d rather not do

On collision course with impossibly faraway Saturday nights
When you wanted to be out with your friends

If you could remember what that was like
Or imagine the contours of their faces


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