The Walk I

It's hot and sticky
this white ice feeling
that drips over my shadow 
as I walk in
familiar places 
and expect to see you.

I turn corners
squaring-off 
an inability, an incoherence
clinging to skin.

I slide round curves
of memory, with my feet
I dodge pedestrians, deny
you in trying.

And the sun is in the sky as it should be
and I walk some more, more ardently
to sweat you from my pores.

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