through the backrooms of the world

a sliver of warmth handed over to envelop the frail substance inside, a strange sense of pretense cast off disdainfully. an attempt made by the man who gave this to the person who lent this to me, a piece of blue fleece soft and unadulterated like a wildgrown daisy petal. forgiveness conveyed, and (or at least) an artifact of it--two separate ideas that he tried to connect unsuccessfully. one too many apologies. too late and still no one regrets. i have no part but i hold onto the sad artifact. in some mornings i watch it diffuse into my stream. in cold nights i would slip my body in it and walk the pavements off, the world disapproving and the wind trying to disassemble my hair. an off, slippery arrangement of you and him.

but at least it shows you that he tried.

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