she walks alone at night.

on the floor,
you’ll find me
wrapped up in your favorite sweater
soles of my feet covered in dirt
as if i’ve been walking in a forest for hours.
i’ve actually been pacing these familiar halls for hours,
retracing last night’s steps
and finding pieces of our conversation
embedded in the walls, the sheets, the cushions.

i suppose time heals wounds,
but whoever said that
must’ve never owned a clock.

you can find me on the floor, she said,
wrapped up in your favorite sweater
with dirty feet and tear-stained cheeks,
glass half-full of hope
you’ll come through the front door.

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