Mystery, it is just me
In the whisper of your own wit and winsome logic
I am here for a second nestled in the lining of
Your memory
And intertwined in the lint of your hearts
Woolen coat pocket
A half eaten snickers bar and a haphazard
Hypnogogic half hearted
Mystery it is just me
Disappointingly
Dull and downhearted in the nap of your carpet
I am here careening out of control still in love
Pathetically
And co-mingled in with the tobacco stained
Fingers and thumbs
That runs through your locks as they shine in the sun
Mystery, it is just me
But you knew that when I offered my false apathy
Then retracted and replaced it tragically
With a long overdue act of responsibility
What could it mean?
That I have become some how a less worthless human being
Than you remember from previously?
Maybe, it is a mystery
©2010 j. k. bradford
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