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The
Poetry Of Noah Champoux
Dust
My nights flip their pages
on notebooks stained in blood,
with an x at the bottom,
a few inches of line,
and my one-of-a-kind signature
that even I cannot forge,
the words above,
finely crafted artwork
illegible by all except myself,
display absolutely nothing worthwhile,
perhaps, a few lines of unrequited love
or a nonsensical feeling unfelt by her,
and I'm left here at night,
wondering whether she read me
or if I'm just gathering dust.
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Sepia
The nostalgia of sepia
hosts a family reunion
of memories, some you forgot,
some that look different now,
but each seat lifts a leaf
off grass about to be raked,
as a reminder of what life is.
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Filling
Blanks
Withheld facts connect
distant puzzle pieces,
an inevitable gap
breaks heart's mistakes,
closed doors form security,
not detachment,
as knowledge intervenes,
a lack of responses
indicates acquiescence.
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Wallpaper
Your plastered body
sticks to walls as paper-mache,
stuck in between cracks
in the concrete,
accepting the defeat
of forming wallpaper,
I reach for edges
to peel you away,
but those pieces break,
you lean down,
eyes closed,
I take fragments
and place them
in my pockets,
one by one,
hoping to recreate you
on my wall.
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