Thirty-Two.

Lost in the midst of an
action, surrounded by
shreds of distance, masked
in the frayed remains of
absence – I can still hear
the light fluttering of your
eyelashes in a repetition of
even numbered beats, as
though you were trying to
fly back towards me; if
only for those few seconds
lost in exploited silence,
there’s a sliver of light, and
perhaps that is why an
ounce of hope is both
destruction and discovery.

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