Often as fog

These, the bustling streets
We walk alone empty often
As fog we are glazed
In gloom-light moonshine
Our eyes fixed on something
Broken, vulnerable ahead
Of ourselves like dancers
Two steps behind
On too-close toes heavy
Breath on the back
Of our neck in the morning
The other is gone and
Our head—our fucking head!
They took that with them.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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