my grips are in garbage bags.
I'm tired of throwing dreams out.
the only thing that gets collected
on mornings,
is dust,
skinning teal-coloured plastic.
They would always come back
stare you still,
and spill empathy
from air-tight recall.
like the begining of a breath,
short but pronounced,
and there in every pull.
one suitcase will
not allow room
for so many things.
can't store anymore problems
in this closing space,
nomads trace their leaving
behind them.
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