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When I wake each morning,. I gracelessly pry my eyes open one at a time. Even the dimmest light is still too bright for me. It is always the right one first,. For no real reason,. You are uncomfortably, perfectly warm. You rub the crust from your eyes,. As do I, leaving black smudges on my fingers. As I erase what remains of yesterday.
I cast the words in your direction,. On barbed hooks, with vile bait. And I learned a bit too late. That all I had intended was to. Catch and throw you back,. But the words had been so hateful. That the waters had turned black,. And you were dying in the deep,. While I stood with rod and line,. Wishing I could reel back. Of rosy cheeks and curly hair.
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On the day of his funeral in June of 2004, I was more sad than I had been at the passing of any other famous person. Who the hell wants to? .
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