| The year moves on without you in it
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| Now it is fall without you
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| I had to close the windows and doors without you coming through
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| I kept them open for as long as I could
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| But the baby got cold
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| I watched the calendar bulldoze
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| This whole past summer was a lingering heatwave
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| And I remember late August, our open bedroom window, going through your things
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| with the fan blowing
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| And the sound of helicopters, and the smell of smoke
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| From the forest fire that was growing, billowing just on the edge of town where
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| we used to swim
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| They say a natural, cleansing devastation, burning in the understory,
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| erasing trails, there is no end
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| But when I’m kneeling in the heat throwing out your underwear
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| The devastation is not natural or good, you do belong here
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| I reject nature, I disagree
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| In the hazy light of forest fire smoke, I looked across at the refineries and
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| thought that the world was actually constantly ending
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| And the smell and roar of the asphalt truck that was idling just out the window,
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| tearing up our street
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| I missed you, of course
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| And I remember thinking the last time it rained here you were alive still
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| And that this same long heat that I was in contained you
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| And in this same heat, I opened the window next to you on your last morning
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| So you could breathe, and then so you could ghost away
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| And now so the room will hopefully stop whispering
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| The grind of time I’m not keeping up with
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| The leaf on the ground pokes at my slumbering grief
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| Walking around, severed, lumbering
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| But slowly, sovereignty reasserts itself
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| I don’t want it though, and betrayal whines
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| Who and how could I… Live? |