Kalypso on the Shore

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Your scent, pure, falls
with your silhouette
dipping behind the horizon –
a perfect, indelible fracture
split across my own emptiness.

Your hands are sacred –
they can only carry so much.
So tell me,
what have you done?
(Where does the light go
once it has left?)

How you choose to be cradled
by the apathetic tendrils of the ocean
over my waiting arms
still eludes me.
But there you are,
and here I am –
an image piercing
in its familiarity.

There is no story here.
Only this leaving,
perpetual.

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