whole

(puzzle,
the lost piece of a complete,
one that hides under the couch
and stays there until it’s time to clean.)

I’ve come back to my old self.
not by knowledge or self discovery,
spiritual bullshit
and all of that,
but by cleaning up under the couch

finding pieces I deemed mine,
loving them for a short time
lasting no more than what it takes for the ENTER
to create a space in the PC screen.

don’t say you didn’t miss it.
don’t say you were unaware.
for without it the puzzle is not complete.
it’s stays damaged, deranged
it doesn’t give the same beauty
it once had,
it just stays,
it’s just there.

a nihilistic piece of art,
a book written by an half-alive writer;
Camus,
maybe,
or probably even Sartre.

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