Notes that run in and out, excite memories... One word wakes mountains of images, the other darkens them into nostalgia. If I close my eyes I can no longer tell the difference: am I here or there?
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I have weights on my eyelids that anchor them to your feet, but my lips still kiss the soil.
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Words parade against the backdrop of my vision, audition for a place in eternity.
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If my hands tell stories of all the things they touch, oh the shock of soap.
1 comment:
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