Diagramming the Flood

This morning is more punch drunk love than punching bag. I called twice to tell you I love you. A voiceless voicemail, woods lost in the suburbs. I bought a compass from the compass store but threw it out after I lost the directions. Where do you go when you go where you go? I’m trying not to notice which way you moved on, but every river points toward you. Inside every earthquake is another memory aging away in a flock of birds. How much more honey do I need? I want to magic eight ball my way back...

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