like grasping straws, trapping
curling smoke in air with a net,
I get only flashes. There was you
and me. Now, though we didn't
speak for a decade. The silence
was like us. Me, oil paint, thick
and heavy-handed. You, water paints,
delicate and difficult. The same, we.
How does one explain a decade
in a dream, describe a lifetime
of choices that sum up to -
I was wrong. I was confused.
I still am. In one toss, one turn,
one fleeting dark night?
We are just oil and water,
and I am a restless sleeper.
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