"Maybe I was made with a piece missing," you said with a smile. You always smiled so tragicly.
We rested and let our shadows play against the tilted wall with the shadows of stacked washers and shopping carts. Laying side by side, we slept under the East end bridge where 80 North meets 102. The roar cars overhead beat the metal planks covering the bridge like a drum. I woke up in the morning to the clang and the deep soak of the morning dew. You were missing agian. I rubbed the last two quarters you'd left me together and thought, "is it missing if it's meant to be gone?"
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