The Moving Target Stumbles
Your absence now befits a detective's list
with bad movies, mislaid plans and smoking gun.
What the butler saw before the ice-cold morgue
I've more questions, little evidence or clues.
As planes cruise above with other fugitives
all like you asking for another tall drink
at a bar when you land by the pretty men.
Who speak a foreign language of hope and love
the absence of remorse a familiar echo.
I somehow miss, your naked smile when dressing
or confessing newer lies and denying all else.
Even the way you left, promising to return
kisses I gave you after counting each one.
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