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A Haze They Call me
Slick I am
on your hands and face slumping to the ground and lathering
your hair for I’m organic
exhaust that sticks to your lungs
and in between your toes one that you can’t
just wipe off like sweat Suffocating that’s not really me more a limbo
between suffocating and refreshing a stale limbo
I am a stale viscous limbo Nocturnal
but not predatory at least
intentionally.
I prey
by nature one that I can’t
ignore.
Perhaps more reserved I want to be
and gentle but it’s nature I can’t resist sticking to your skin and living in this limbo
between suffocating and refreshing Tired Misty La ssi
tude I am but
don’t want to be I don’t want to cling to your skin Can I
be nocturnal not
because I’m predatory or in limbo but just because I’m dead
exhausted and want to plump up
the grass and dirt beneath my feet my pillow
and kiss the sky goodnight
like any other sleepy haze might.
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This piece explores my belief that if I was a type of weather, I would be a haze.