She liked to outline
all the tattoos she couldn’t afford
with just a marker and some extra time
she carried in the evenings on her own.
All the rooms were stonewalled
and echoed like you’d think,
and she would drink her tea
and scream when it got boring.

Things worth ignoring are like shadows
in the shape of spinning windmills
always separating quadrants of a circle.
She thought the wooden blades
on ceiling fans were like the petals
on a central metal flower.
They can’t devour any sunlight,
but they could bring it to you
sitting in their presence.

The house never ended
in the normal sense,
but rather faded off
like how the ocean got
gradually deeper.
I think I see her sometimes
looking through the walls
for me, but that might be
another misconception.

My last impression wasn’t perfect
although it wasn’t all as bad
as I remember.
I surrender to the hallways
and the doors that never open
when I try. Another truth
I’ve somehow mixed into a proper lie.
This is goodbye, she says
through window glass
and never ending pane.
While I explain the stupid reasons
that I’m sorry.

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