The going, gone.

You honk every time you drive by.

I melt behind closed curtains.

You pace with your sleeves rolled up.

I sit still gripping onto bars.

You turn and leave behind, looking from one way to another.

I look up from the skylight and pull my hair back.

You stop, stand under the shade of a tree, and give yourself time to adjust.

I let go of the flowing curtains, turn around, and do the same.

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