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Jan 2015
My hands entire in splits
from the broken fences
you managed to escape from.
Old memories soak tendons,
douse fingertips; ignite.

Suns set and the metals
in my blood
no longer act as a magnetic
means of reeling in our stars.
My palms are a midnight prism,
encaging bruised hearts
below broken darkness,
under thickening skin.
I no longer expect you to return.

Yet these 27 bones
still manage to remember you.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
(Weymouth)   
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