feels this way.
Familiar like the abstract
place you grab for
when you’re curled in despair
on your own kitchen floor
begging to go home,
not knowing where you mean.
No matter whose hair and breath
lend the other pillowcase its scent,
which farm grew this squash
so delicately sliced,
whose face you lean toward,
lips to their ear,
cupping a joke.
No matter which gone person
you scan the crowd for
year after year.
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