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Our threads pulled apart
but even in the stillness,
I feel you weaving
We exist
In the spaces between the lines
In the pages of a story
That we write at different times

We live
In the subtle phrases
In the corners of a poem
That we read in early morning

We love
In between the moments
In a way we can't quite say
That we know is far too dangerous
patient, optimistic travelers
gliding soundlessly along
moving walkways while sun falls
across gleaming surfaces
of aluminum, glass and peace
I am getting older
and you are too
I might not be around
to know the older you
but you
got to know
the older me
which I suspect will look
a lot like
the older you
and
I got to know
the younger you
which I know
although you won’t agree
looks a hell of a lot
like me!
A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

A past life—
a spirit reincarnate,
a love tethered,
a body,
caged—
dammed in feathers.

A crow mourns at the stump
of the memorial tree.

Souls tied,
one unearthed,
tears slipping in flight—
a forsaken rebirth.
A bit of Black.
A piece of Scarlet.
There's no turning back.
When I place my rings upon you
nothing is beyond my grasp.
Each rotate to become the main body of it.
In place of angels
the hand of friendship
forms a pattern on the wall.
It's there to remind us
we're all sitting targets.
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