once again between evening and
nightfall
i return home to a crowd.
i wish there was more room,
it gets claustrophobic sometimes.
but every day i get to choose my
confidante.
and nobody minds.
over swirls of smoke
i tell them about my day.
they have faith in my stories.
they never question.
sometimes i anticipate their
thoughts
and set their mind to rest.
its always a quiet
intimate gathering.
they aren't friends really.
it is difficult to give them a
name.
i know you came the other day.
and
all you saw was furniture.two chairs.a desk.
and books.mauve walls.
curtains
hiding windows with broken louvers.
and yet.
i had a more meaningful
conversation with the chair yesterday
than i have had with you
in months.
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