somehow, you always end up back inside.
all the locks on the wide windows are engaged,
the doors shut tightly in their rusty hinges.
there are no creaks in the night, no floorboards
give way under your weight. all is quiet.
but you’re here.
there are too many songs that I associate
with you. they arise on the radio,
one after another, and I let them play.
songs are bees. they circle around my mouth,
enter with the softest fluttering. they do not sting.
I crawl into this new bed and let them swarm.
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