Drained from pretense
(or was it charity?),
I sit in a warm, dry room
after a sunlit day,
damp and chilled in the bones.
And the work was hard --
hours of buoyant conversation --
for there was no bond left,
only burned bridges
long ago incinerated.
In their ashes I swam,
attempting to vivify dead memories
and ties which, perhaps, never were . . .
the futility of it all
breaking again and again and again
my own dumbstruck heart.
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