in my broken-box
there's a picture of you,
ripples in the waves of
an existential whirlpool—
firmware matter, like glue
thankfully, not hardware.
You are an ache in my soul,
a spasm in my back when
the weather is damp...
You look a bit older now,
like I imagine your mother,
like you are living a full life,
enjoying things, to say the least.
You are the pangs of consciousness,
like a dream that has abated
like numbness that's no longer sharp
sickly pleasure burning, more wretched
than foul discontent,
lingers the odor with the coming of the interlopers,
of love, passion or lust,
that animals can't convienently pretend
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