I'm beginning to notice that my life is
nothing more than a never-ending poem,
split up into millions of individual moments
that could create an epic tale if only I could
string them all together into words.
There's a woman I see every day on my walk
who does nothing but sit in her car and read novels.
I can see the results of her chain smoking filtered out
of the barely cracked window, flooding the garage with
a thick, tobacco-scented fog.
I can't help but wonder what drove her to her nook,
safe behind the dog-eared pages of unrequited romances.
Am I missing something, behind the distorted curtains on the dirty windows?
The neighborhood is so quiet; At this point, I think
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