its the honest truth, 1997 never happened
i was too young and you weren’t there
all those poems is me burying you
in memory, how i imagine you
helping me fight the fear of the attic
building dreamhouses out of blankets
walking down to the early bus stop
if i keep saying it, it might be true
that the past fake ghost i saw
really lived in the woods, and i really did
sleepwalk to your treehouse every night
just to remember how your face looked,
just for the right words, it was always for
the right words.
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