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Impressionless
Don’t know why I’m crying
 I just stand there,
 And let these foreign tears paint my face
 with the saltiness of hope and loss.
 
 That’s what I should be feeling:
 I know this, at least.
 I have a dull awareness of these strange, fleeting feelings
 but they flit across my conscience,
 
 Impressionless.
 
 Is that what I have become,
 unable to feel?
 Knowing it should hurt,
 but unable to register the wound?
 Incapable of knowing why these tears keep falling?

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