tabletops at 2 am

where do you see yourself one year from now
do you see yourself in dozens of rough pieces
shards strewn like splinters, gathered like rocks
do you expect to be broken?
or do you wonder, ever, if your spine can withstand the constant grip, prodding
or will your bones break and your flesh weaken?
we make music as our shoulders collide
bruised with tea stains
This poem is about: 
Our world


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