I don't know how you measure your portion. I don't know how you remember your name. I stay close to the curbside. The houses sleep while I pace the streets. I loiter near porch and stairway, smoking slowly, embracing the cold. Night falls, dawn rises. I only take the stranger's share. I only leave alone.
My sickness is such that every blessing is cut with poison. My sickness is such that I leave these pieces unmarked beneath the cold and sleeping ground. The skin I shed is draped over every shadow, following my every step and turn. I tire of the telling, and that is all I do. I wear, I burn, I tire. The sky is beautiful, the rain is cold, every color is a fresh argument for the invisible hordes. I swallow bile, hold my tongue, and litter the icy sidewalks with hints of weeping.
I linger, though everywhere I pause sheds evidence that I should leave. Go because the light is too bright. Go because every crowd is a conspiracy. Go because there isn't anything to be said, nothing left to gain. Go because you will always be the highway kind, loving the leaving most. Cherish every gift you demolish, treasure every love you have betrayed. I hang on, just to see what happens. I wait around, because the show isn't over just because you have left the stage. More color, more continuity, the feats of the maddening and the wrong. The motion of the host, and the absent answers given with each breath. Hands in pockets, I stay here so far. There is always a little more nothing to take.
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