You make unscheduled stops and that’s when you fill my mind up
You’re a little like a shoe left beside a train track
Most all of you gone, but just a piece of you that you never sent for and did not pick up
Something unfinished
Like a conversation in French and you can’t keep up
Or having left your coffee cup somewhere
Or your best hat on a moving bus
But you keep asking yourself, “What is it I was to remember?”
Under the locomotive movements of your breath.
When it was a whole human being (it as me, it was me)
Misplaced and with your recklessness my trust was put to death.
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