the sound of the air raid siren
never bothered me, when it sang of Fridays.
And that in the past,
I had been indestructible.
Things were just like that.
And now, every night I listen for a plane
And every night I hear it coming.
And when it does not come,
I go through the motions again.
Everybody dies sometime.
I die a tiny bit every day,
when I tell myself little stories
and when I am done
only that hollow feeling
eating at me from the inside out.
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