It's mistaken for a deep emotional connection
and the scientists look on--
to give reason to sorrow, or
overwhelming joy--
its just math, and the chemicals,
just borrowed.
Pleasantry, a simple suitcase head,
composed of dirty laundry,
sour like the sweet pastures of
lovers,
taking notes.
Like I could snatch a flight
or look away from the curious glow
there, that
is seaching through my luggage,
but I can't.
No,
God, I can,
I just never pack enough for tomorrow.
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