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pexels

I learned it at the hospital
how to pack as if there was no distinction
between night and day
just one long twilight
where yoga pants
and cotton shirts
are always acceptable
because I’d do anything
not to leave your side
wash my underwear in the sink
live off vending machines
or the uneaten food
on the trays they leave for you
this cold, sterile place
stranding us so far from home
ruined everything

suitcases remind me
of how you wished for the ocean
with your view of white ceiling tiles
and the dark rectangle of the tv
how all you heard
was the sound of traffic

you should’ve been packing your bags
for a dozen vacations
damn the cancer
and all it took from you

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