And thinking of the sound of keys.
My heart beats match the footsteps
outside the door and pounds a little harder
each time I hear the wrong door slam.
We are all compartamentalized
tucked and hidden to the naked eye
but what lies inside is heinous.
The perfectionist doesn't rest
and the glass is still half empty
I compare you and contrast you
to the last life I lived
and remember nights of cosmopolitans
and wooden floors
and smile to myself knowing I left behind
teardrops all over the streets of New York
2003
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