The mirrors and the unacknowledged nods.
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Dial tones and license plates.
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The words you didn't choose.
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Everything the day's too small to hold spills on to the dusk,
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and shorts the evening's fuse.
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So you fumble for a voice and sing "Happy Birthday."
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Read it to yourself again.
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The stories always end the same.
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He can't stay and she won't run,
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and fear is where they're calling from.
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Staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts.
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We're all out of bandages.
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The heaters rattle taunt.
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Sifting through translucent shards of glass,
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looking for a filament that lit the life you want.
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So you stumble for the phone, grasp the cord and pull.
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Will your readership complain the stories always end the same?
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She can't stay and he won't run, and fear is where they're calling from.
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Afraid is where you're calling from.
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Uncorrected Proofs
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The Weakerthans |