Nothing is what I want if asked
what I wish for or
if wished all the best—
I want nothing for
I cant conjure what best is,
or what it means to me,
that is
If its got to do with pretty
or happy, a charming face, I
want one that turns
to nothing
And since that is what
it must become, a memory,
a trace—
Where all things begin
and end—then there is where
Ill be
Despite whats in between:
a table on which there are
filled glasses
scattered sketches
of me and blue prints by you,
a lawn used for sheets—
aiming for everything—
Dreams we fled with—
which have brought me here
to want and know
nothing.
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