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There’s an inkling in your absence
from when we were together,
a casualty in history–
the roads to Rome did not lead home
despite past tense, it seems to me
moving on does not mean gone

there’s a place between
what is here and what was there
a joke I made left in your place
that no one else could get,
a “nevermind,”
as I tried to keep you to myself

splitting up is like ripping fabric
threads that cling in your absence
there is no tidy resolution,
just pilling and fraying,
a directionless path
I seem to be straying

There is a memory in movements
that needs to be unlearned
the way we walk together
one step off of the other,

Even in the subtleties,
There’s still an inkling
in your absence.

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