You are wrought with scars,
circumstantial skin that could never find its double.
I drew maps of you
in your month-long absence,
never once getting you right.
You said you were missing
a certain part of your life.
I said I miss it all.
But what could we get back
that couldn't be undone
as before, within a day?
The quick plans return,
our eccentricities,
I believe the silence knows itself,
its chant louder than we:
"What rights have you to bliss?"
We are an intimacy of scars.
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