Paradise is still lost.


I wrote you letters, I typed them
on my Smith-Corona.
Restarting with each mistake,
telling you stories of delicate,
cold sunrises.
Sunrises which I have never seen, for
each night I am awake into the wee
hours of the morning, falling asleep as
the moon rises in the East.
You told me, "I love the coast the most,"
but God damn, what about me?

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