How It Sounds

I don’t care about the keys
that stick distinctly in the door.
It would be fine if I could leave
and not come back here anymore.
The ceiling’s tiered just like a pyramid,
but I can’t look up without
you looking down, and I don’t think
that I can stay around with you.
I’m too in love with how it sounds.

It’s not okay to go away
the way that I would like to.
They say there’s not enough for all,
but a select group of the few,
and if you try to make an argument
against the things that they regret
they’ll send you packing anyway.

I like to look at all the graves
in the garden by work.
They look like angels in the field,
but all their faces look hurt.
Some day I’ll dig a place myself
and lay their thinking in the dirt
about her hands and how they
held me back from all the bridges
I had burnt.

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