Designated

If I could scatter
Every piece
Of myself upon the Earth
I think I’d like to go
In your purse,
On your windowsill,
In your
Nightstand.
These are
Places more preferred.
But I’m tossed
Into corners and
Drawers full of
Every random thing.
Am I a
Mote of dust or
A loose rubber band?

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Filed under poem, poetry

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