What I Got Used To
Where is the pitter patter of hidden feet?
The feminine ones that lurked and skulked,
fiegning non-existance so I could sleep some more?
Where my jarring alarm clock go?
The fleshy one that would jump onto my feet,
hindering me getting up, but cajoling me much the same?
Where the forming phantom leave?
The one that would read and be silent
long through the morning but there none the less?
Where did the conversation go?
On a plane, in a car, by the legs that moved them from the mattress
where our mornings were spent talking before I left to school?
-Matthew Koutzun
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