My stomach boils with distorted déjà vu—
My only indicator that he is here again,
Since this feeling never addresses himself by name.
Instead, he is like a singed memory of a tree
That has never actually burned down—
I can see its wholesome body lift nutrients from the ground,
Yet as I walk through its leaves, I hold my breath, for
A thick haze of ashes was brushing against my neck.
I cannot explain to anyone the stench of smoldering leaves
If life is the only part of existence they are capable of seeing—
But, perhaps, this is the only imagery to express what he means
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