That time

It is that time
when your bones are dry from the cracked street’s summer song
when your mind is still hot like the twisted metal of all of summer’s wrecks
when your nature is torn in two.

It is that time
when it always feels later than it is;
when the light leaves you where it found you,
wishing for more blankets to crawl under.

It is that time
of knowing
that even if you could,
even curling up in your mother’s arms
would not be enough.

It is that time
of ideas and ideals and dreams that were already empty
before you were dreamed into them.

It is that time
when all that’s left is
what’s left after the two halves have split.

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