In Switchboard Myth

the truly missed connection is always spoken softly, in capital tones of regret.
the scene is only set by separate parties,
living lives resemblant in always parallel lines.
enough to cross the stars in only crossing someone’s mind.
holding on to time.
objectified by the taste
held close on baited breath.
wasted on those all alone least favorite days,
when waking up is the only prayer to bless the air,
and swear that just one more truth in a year of lies
would be the one that changed forever both your lives.
and then you catch your breath.
and in a second let your present catch up to your past,
and realize that all the things that have passed you by
are the same things that delivered yourself to you.
true to form, that high and lonesome cry.

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