Ticking off the silent days
purgatory grows familiar;
I gain more tolerance for the hole
in my head.
Numbness creeps in like a cat
mistreated once too often,
wary of kindness, assuming every
meal its last.
Once it takes up residence,
things will never be the same.
The hole will become
wholly unremarkable.
One day you will remember to call,
and although I’ll answer
the black hole will swallow
your voice.
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