Can you hear these words?
Through air and water rushing like blood
to the tips of fingers
gently pushing thoughts further.

Standing,
as if emptiness became king,
I miss the fingers of imaginations
that place plots
of romance and rebellions
into dreams that blend this life to illusions.

The lines you draw, thin in precision,
separating me delicately
into lesser men that dance
like static drawings would
in a child’s mind.

You are not here.

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