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Someone once told me I’m too empathetic. Empathy,
like life, oozing in from all sides,
contouring the angles of my cadence,
this euphoria plunged into a type,
some tint
of enhanced serendipity.
It made us overripe and connected.
Considering how others can act as mirrors
covered with a thin matt-green clothe.
Once I turned into a real pluviophile,
obsessed with rain fall and getting the first word
slipping from buckets, pouring out the invisible light
onto the afternoon, hugging my windows
and steaming the chalked Florida pavement.
Heat too has a sense of empathy. In high school chemistry I learned
there is no cold, only the absence of heat.
This admittance of void I found touching but insincere.
There is no other it says.
There is only one contained, subtracted into oblivion.
To me, this deduction holds like fragile old newspaper,
catching, but in the end, just old news.
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