Do I have any regrets? No.
But do I know where to go from here? No.
Dedication to: work? Family? Friends? Myself? My art? Love? Lover? Stranger?
Every answer already taken, by others, like seats on a subway car.
Everything rattles, and everyone's a stranger I've known so long
we unknowingly wear each others secrets.
"Seat?"
I blink in disbelief.
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