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Someone in Seattle
by Curtis White Carroll

sat staring out my window last night,
my hands folded onto my lap

your messages tell me that my hands haunt you
my hands are restless and starving

this may have been nothing but a photograph developing in our minds
but I know I kissed you
I know you made my hat look beautiful

these people,
the poets who know us,
talk of similarities,
but mostly regarding things notorious

they talk of things we used to have in common,
as if all things that human beings enjoy and levitate towards
are symptoms of what we suffered and walked away from

as if these things were tunnels,
these dark years of youth,
this awareness of life's frailty
as friends fall from it like leaves from dead trees

the other side brought us a love of Thai food, comic books, Leonard Cohen,
poetry and rainy cities,
the clouds above tell me I didn't find rain at the end of the tunnel

what I really found was love,
maybe it wasn't that long of a walk

I stop thinking,
my hands go back to the skin of your face,
your Cherokee hair
my fingertips send me signals telling me where they are: this is home


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