Habitual

I used to be so imperfect
I would forget why
it matters.

You used to be so perfect
you could forget to define
what matters.

We used to be so
much matter behind
the forgotten cellar door.

Risers and treads once combined
to create crazy angles
and a steep decline

into these private subterranean cells
nowhere near the place
we used to call home.

2 thoughts on “Habitual

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