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safe

of stories
long rewritten –
to a page
that won’t be kept
secrets folded soft
into the crease
lines to rub
where ink gave out –
fingers without memory
trace the ragged edge
of yesterday

sweet the sound
of almost sung –
names
and dates
and places
sunlight burning
tender through the pines
washes now
the winter –
a moment yet we stay
turned the bed
to face the southern
skies

letters
I’ve been writing
saved my name a place –
walked between my dreams
a mile with you
worried not
the path to choose
or what of time shall fill –

a story
meant for telling
kept for me
the end

. . .