Garbage

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I’m surrounded by trash. Piles of papers–God knows their origins and destinations–ash, an empty coffee cup, an unvacuumed floor, general clutter built up over years.

Trash in my thoughts surround the occasional useful ideas. The chorus of a song repeats in the background, and the aggravation it inspires only comes forward when the other garbage recedes. The plans I want to set in motion that I know will never happen, the people involved won’t be interested, little gifts I’d love to make for people that will eventually be discarded.

The burgeoning dumpster of emotions never spoken looms over me like the shadow of a cloud. The cross I bear is made of the rotten wood ripped from a tree, carved with long ago lovers names. Though I know most don’t see each other any longer, the fact that they found one another for a short time is a dull ache in my chest. My name was once carved into a tree, and I’m sure has suffered the same fate.

I light my cigarette and breath deeply the stench of it all, a kiss not stolen. A love unreturned.

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