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I am a coiled spring, pressed all the way down, coils wrapped tight.

I am potential energy. I am almost. I am not here. I am nowhere.

Don’t try to find me. I am not even a molecule. I don’t obey your laws,

of physics, of science. I will outsmart you. I will outrun you.

I am not here.

Why this incessant need to grasp? And how can I explain how I feel?

If I could paint the picture, I would. It’s a look on my face, an absence,

a loss. I spend hours trying to find where I’ve gone, wrestling with it,

letting go, and letting go, and letting go.

But of what? What I hold onto is fake, fantasy, fabricated.

The sounds of the BART whisper through my apartment.

Somewhere, someone is headed where they intend to go.

The sounds are gone.

I’m still right here.


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