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Peripheral
I watched the porch lights flicker on for them—
the laughter soft, the timing always right.
The chairs were full. I hovered at the stem
of every plan, then vanished with the night.
A window cracked, a voice that called too late,
a message read, replied to days behind.
No slammed door, just a pattern I could trace—
how even warmth turns cruel when misaligned.
I asked for little. Always just enough
to be let in. To pull a corner seat.
But glow is not the same as being loved.
And unaddressed omissions aren't discreet.
I stayed outside until I felt the chill—
no hate, no love, just quiet, quiet, kill.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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