You disappeared, and you left me your
ravings.
You vanished and left me with thoughts
of the grave.
You left me at least an egg-carton of
doubting
and a Costco-sized grief to write poems
about.
It's been months since I wrote about
you. You're less searing.
Is a dozen a magical number of years
Or have I just found it convenient
forgetting?
You call Freud; I'll call Kreskin;
we'll settle the bet.
I once worried what forgetting would
make me. I'm seeing
That for better or worse, there's one
possible 'me.'
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