Empty book under his elbow so familiar it’s strange
Just these tired fingers hell bent on letting go
So high from the singing as I make my way home
It’s the story of the story
It’s the still place behind my words
It’s the look on his face that makes me think he heard
All these vanishing points I’ve learned
They said it’d be easy to find
Simple as a dot and two lines
If I held my straight edge I’d be fine
Failed to mention limits of the naked eye
Moving through this dark country
Thinking how would I know?
If the one that disappeared
Could’ve been standing so close?
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