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Well you called me â telephone ringing in the night. And you asked me if I was alright â like an afterthought, an oversight. And I stood, so surprised, trying to hold on to my pride. So close, I could hear your low sigh. I said I was fine. You said you were fine.
Thereâs a loneliness â I donât lose sight of it. Like a high distant satellite, one side in shadow, one in light.
But I didnât mind to be alone that night, in a city Iâd never seen â all these skyscrapers pooling on a prairie. Built high and tall, as though they all compete just to reach the darkness up above that once here had been â
Somewhere â if thereâs a beauty you had seen in me. That I wanted somehow to believe â drift of sentiment and memory. That I couldnât have, I could not keep, no, it never did belong to me, it was only ever another thing I would carry. Still it held me, loyalty, to a feeling, to some glimpse, of a love that was only ever a kind of distance. That we could not cross. âGather no moss.â