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Junk Drawer

Its wild how you can share these incredibly intimate moments with people you don't really know. Whether its the song you sing to me and the way you can carry me around on stage and I can feel my soul bouncing off walls and through amps and fingertips when we've never even shared a name. Or the person who caught me when I was about to pull into oncoming traffic when the horn beeped to snap me to and I owe this person whose eyes I've never connected to their breath so much for my in tact ribs. Or the person who inserts an IV on the scene to never be met conscious by a patient who dreams their way through these moments of intimacy. And I wonder, does the person know how they've touched someone? Does the singer know I felt her voice? Does the slap feel the sting like my face? Because we all see the same gathering drops on a window and feel the rain is alone with us. We all construct our personalities from a mix of junk that we see sitting around. Something an older brother discards is still good for me, and someone else might have my carebear underwear on their head. Sometimes making the junk look pretty is easier than others. Pick some sparkly things to put in yours is all I'm saying. Toddlers and drag queens are right about some things. Lady Gaga isn't one of them. Weird how she can end up streaming down the window pain when I was really thinking of someone with substance. You know substance? like a pool that has thickness you can stand a spoon in, not just liquid that slips past never to be noticed or felt. I'll light a candle for my thoughts to stay thick and good or when they're dreary that they smoke away.

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