A bump in the night

the voice comes to me
as a phantom in a dream.

as i write
the voice channels
from him to me.

laughter vanishes
to staring at the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
his childhood dreams.

vacanies searching for occupation
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories,
all of it comes to me.

in my internal screenplay,
is he the playwright
or the main lead?

the nature of it,
all of my opposites:
bruting arrogance
or brilliant confidence.

is my empathy a curse
or is this a curated character chiseled in verse?

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