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disappearing

stardust
was the first I knew
of midnight confidantes –
prints along
the edges
of my room

verses
found in corners
words I never used –
poems sweetly tucked
into the night

breathless
as a robin’s first
warms the window sill
– what proof
has been forsaken
to the dark

blushing hands
resist the fault
of memory to plead
swollen lips –
the taste of honeybees

a curs’ed line
runs parallel
to places I am still
– gathered as a wish
into a sigh

. . .

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