by Todd Mercer
I became lonely, with you gone
on social tour. Didn’t maintain
the level, spiraled
into secondary complications, sleepful wakefulness.
Learning how to let go—the perfect plan
for holding on. You solve riddles
extemporaneously, faster
than I can record solutions.
These gaps in the bubble
teach how to wave goodbye
with savoir-faire, to detach
when detachment is imminent. You
do me a favor, slant-ways. The bubble
will reform at reunion, the level
is achievable. All this is truth,
but I get lonely. I’m not made of stone.
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