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But I can’t confess how lonely it gets
to sit in a room full of all your favourite things

To stare

the whole night through
at the ground (or the bottom of something)
Thinking
of a brother who never calls
and a friend who always answers

I am the only one here.
I am the only one here.

And to stay here (everywhere I go)

alone, attached

to some detachment that bribes me into
laughing at the world every time I fall; God forbid
I show any signs of weakness

Britta B.

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