“I used to be an athlete,”
is what I think in the shower
looking down at myself.
Strange to know a past
hidden from everyone.
I was walking alone
when I started to feel better.
Perhaps I thought of you
reading my last letter:
your shock or your disgust
keeps you quiet. You don’t know?
I was your borrowed view
behind the gate, the wall of leaves.
“This is the last string
you attach to me,” I say
and let bleed what bleeds,
having been touched
on the surface.
*Soren Stockman is currently getting his groove on in Italy. He reads this, tell him how much you love and miss him.
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