weight of your sight

like carpets that
gather
dust
and yet
don’t smell
you stuck
by
each day
collecting
l
i
tt
l
e
by little
what
people
called
my
‘dark
sense
of humor’

you
grew
but not
in size
in weight
in the
( s ) pace
you
occupied
in what
once
used to
be my
voice

you
fit
right
into my
eyes
;
and
instead
of me
searching for
you
anymore
you
became
my sight

– oops –

I
will finish
this poem

the day
I’m blind

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