by Tilok Adnan
this may be a false
memory: the carpet
stretched out to the ends
of my playground
decked with shelves all
around , exotic and forbid-
den toys on them and
couches and sofas and
chairs from where I jumped
and sat and played heroes
of my own making, are
all in that particular room.
it includes a memory of
you walking toward, and
out the door only for
me to follow, only
to be stopped and plucked
from my own terrain so
that you'd be free to
run like my tears
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