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So, I took the call
with the ex watching
and failing at his
“I’m not listening”
look.
“Sure, seven is fine,
see you then.”
The phone went back
into my pocket.
Late night drunken text
arrived hours later:
“I’m fucked up.”
Yeah, well, I knew that
six months ago.
In a kinder world
I would feel pity for
his obvious pain.
Instead I think I’ll
have a beer
and sit in the chair
that used to be his.
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