Some people you push away so they don’t get hurt when you die,
Nothing to be done about it, but you still try,
Everything you see slowly slurred by falling rain,
Moving through dry streets, the pour throbbing in each vein
Past the morning psychos in their polos, in their slacks,
Whispering and rustling about your grays and blacks,
Wishing you could be alone, in silence, intact,
As you work whatever job would dare to have you back,
Thinking of someone who’d be real hurt when you die,
Thinking about how far away he’ll be when you try.

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