tune it out,
the atmosphere of the absence will become a gentle din
soon it won't be there
much
at all
I mean, hey,I have a life
I do my thing, I have my fun
I'm independent, self-sufficient
attached,detached
I'm one hell of a lady
the facade that it's not the everpresent ubiquitous coloring of everything that makes me laugh or cry becomes more real
the need to look over my shoulder is fading fast
and I don't imagine it the aftertaste or the atmosphere or the fading notes or the sepia tone to what is becoming black and white print of a memory
only occasionally more vivid than the technicolor present
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