Discourse upon revisiting Julia, in the dark, accompanied by some Debussy and the very worst of the Beatles

I am placing all of my eggs
in a single basket,
softly and with care,
and I hate myself
for it.

At night,
when I lie in a bed,
or on my couch awake
staring at the ceiling
until my eyes roll back
into my head,
I meet a person with your hands
but so many masks
that I can’t quite make out
the face.

I tear at them.
One by one they peel away
like the so many skins of an onion,
but it is not the smell
that remains sour and
pungent.

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