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It starts out as a premonition, a looming and ominous hint.

The base of the neck feels stiff and foreign. You tilt your head, stretching as if trying to listen in to a far away noise that soon reveals itself as an oncoming train, strain. Eyes stare outward, grow a bit wider, you hate being right. It is coming.

The first strike is as sharp as you remember, hits you from the side, like a bitter wind, penetrates, resonates. The pain spreads. You're now certain something's spilled inside you. Your stomach agrees and ties a knot.

Time to hide from the light, eyelids heavy, eyes beneath tender. Deep breaths only enforce this reunion, minutes stretch. Knuckles outline the brows, hard, a placebo you tell yourself helps somehow. Hours grow.

Fractured messages now slam around inside this silent chamber where only you can hear yourself break. It's going to be a long night.
The sheets move, forming waves in this ocean. A deep breath, a morning sigh at an hour that's neither rise nor set.

White snow on pillow but this skin is warm. Heartbeat, strong like a hiccup, feel it in my throat. A deep scratch on the forearm to arrive in the present. These dreams still tug at me, another breath, another breath.

Sit up dark, regardless if eyes open or shut. Chin to the ceiling, sweat moves along the back, like a ghost drawing a map. The beasts await patiently, your turn, return.

Onto naked skin, I slip on this erudite armor once again. Trembling, I fall back into the battlefield.
Soft, gentle fur and I hope I write this legibly when I’m ninety. Will I make it to ninety?

My cat insists and purrs with comfort as I think of growing old. It’s too long, breath isn’t meant to hold this many memories, yours and strangers’. I grumble.

Does she dream like me? Would I purr if I slept soundly like her, with so very few needs during the hours of wake.

She watches me often, as if she knows, smirks and goes back to sleep leaving me an envious creature.
Volatile nerves tremble and skin is raised, reaching.

I find an eyelash that clings, his gentle fingers are hard, gentle, never weak.

He blinks and so does the camera and I’m still, a breath caught within infrared.

There are trees, leaves that delight as I eavesdrop in their chatter. I touch the bark, pretend to not see the scars. I whisper for permission to leave another. D plus E.
The soft fur warms my skin, while taking a deep breath of December air.

I look out into the mist, the mountains are playing hide and seek again out in the distance.

I’m watching him let out a sigh from the corner of my eye, making me want to rush in and catch it, with my mouth. He smiles, knows I’m daydreaming of him again.

I look back at the mountains and feel at a loss somehow, perhaps nature doesn’t like letting go either, an uncomfortable slumber of cold mementos and frozen earth. Time feels like it’s standing still, and in this moment my favorite part is holding his hand, knowing he wants to hold mine, firmly.

Look up, Love. Atoms are dancing, colliding and painting the sky.
Palms together, the cold air settles slowly but with purpose and clothes me in goosebumps. I haven’t worn a watch in years, don’t need to know what time it is, know my heart is about to stop. The wallcreepers are on the move, feathers flee into the mist.

The wind seeks my attention, wants to dry the tears as I huddle but I won’t fight the strain. This mountain is familiar and I count cracks upon the skin on my wrists, assessing age that of a tree, rings now too many. Smirking while in search of the great white titan, taller than any sequoia.

The sun is prowling, scouting for a Tricity born tellurian playing hide and seek for yet another day. I jump and for a solid moment I feel an emptiness, an ethereal weight, I gasp and try again, gasp, try… sigh…
Czytać nadzieje w poezji jest dużo jak rozumieć niebieski kolor w niebie,
ona czuje, zna ten perfum, co nie może sama sobie kupić.

Ten wiatr ciągnie, utrzymuje ale nic ujawnia,
koty marzą, a ona ciągle czyta te same książki.

Szuka ten kolor wszędzie, jej farby nigdzie nie pasują,
wysyła pocztówki do siebie z miejsc nieznanych z których
zawsze pamięta dziękowac za piwo.

Lata idą, a ona powtarza sie, ciągle zapomina patrzyć na dół,
nieobecna że niedługo ominie go.

Reading hope in poetry is much like understanding the blue in the sky,
she feels, knows this perfume, that she can't afford to buy on her own.

This wind pulls, maintains but doesn't reveal,
cats dream, she still reads the same books.

Searches for this color everywhere, her paint doesn't match anything,
she sends out postcards to herself from unknown places from which
she always remembers to thank for the beer.

Years go by, she repeats herself, still forgetting to look down,
unknowing that soon she'll pass him by.
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