Pitch Black

It will take a phonebook of tearing paper to match the grief;

There will be days filled with dial-tone dissapointments,

Faulty lines,

Unchecked answering machines.
Who says hello to the paper mâché heart that holds all the numbers?
You are best at remembering, 

It makes up your spine, 

Every lonely address,

Every useless page.
More object to trip over than something to cherish,

But who says sorry to industrial paper?
There will be miles and miles to remind you of how disposable you are,

How easy it will be to throw you at the end of the year,

Dustbins and distance, just that.
Nothing more,

Maybe less.
Sometimes,

They will tell tales of how important you once were,

They’ll emphasize the past tense so that you’ll pick out the present,

Which is to say,

You truly are,

Nothing.

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