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I watch the years stroll by one after the other,
my past selves passing through the mirror,
eyes flickering with nascent melancholy
amidst the stale 4 AM light.

The familiar caress
of language against skin drifts
into the residual warmth of a morning
long since faded; the screams settle
like petals into the soil, muffled
into the monolithic quiet;
and the friends flutter away
like pigeons from a park.

(Yet here I am,
sifting out pinpricks of sunlight
amidst the velvet darkness of recollection,
waiting for those striking moments of clarity
when we touch each other
through a single glance.)

Soft and suffocating
are Time and his army
of forgetting, stitching
my limbs together
into a strained harmony.
Dissolving us
the ink moon feasting on the sun
during a winter eclipse.

(There is no such thing as waiting.
Only loss
like a river.
We are all water
falling together.)


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