I am heavy in my own salt,
My feet high arched.
In the morning I will plant mustard.
I will take prisoners
Or flying lessons
Depending on the air.
For now I hear the refrigerator running
Like robotic crickets chirping.
I see your face in street lights
And parked cars.
I am a softer angry,
Willing not to let go so hard.
Willing even to overlook the spelling error
In that Dear John.
The air is thinning.
I miss your hair in the sink.
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