This Is Not a Party, and You're Still Not Invited

Dusk belongs to football games after the fact. You must go home pretending to have feelings for the game the team you chose has won or lost. There are dried leaves everywhere, the kind you used to rake. "We should be celebrating something," you say to yourself, for you are walking alone and thinking of how you don't belong. Maybe you could invite someone or join some others and invent something in common. You hold out hope for some thread of belonging. Emphasis on longing. 

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