Monday, January 12, 2009

sextant (unheeded)

Like apple cores spinning into oblivion
so go the uncounted beats of my heart.

I lay awake at night
searching the ceiling
hoping to find a pattern that looks like you.

There is none.

If I should run out of gas
on some deserted stretch of highway
would the merciless sun
and the scorching asphalt
distract me for a second from my loneliness?

Or am I doomed to wander this thoroughfare forever?

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