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I hold my breath
thinking of you every night

the front door swings open
and closes at my touch,
praying that somehow
you sleep through the shrieks

its metal core
makes as it scrapes
against the concrete floor;
each turn shrilling
of its rust

how these noises
juxtapose the morning’s:
your giggles against
the sunlight passing
through the skylines

as I open the glass door
on the way to work
again, I carry your voices
with me and run them
in my head

as I watch Christopher Columbus
move by outside the window
because 9-6 shift
is the slowest, I’m alone
for the most part

drinking coke, taking
too many smoke breaks
and all the chairs are mine
to take–I miss you
all along.