When the tired back bends, book butterflies
and writing stretches out cross parted sheets
in lines that reach towards the cresting rise,
the shore of words where language ends and meets
its binding on a half-inch beach. There caught
within the folded valley of the spine,
a fallen lash that isn’t mine. I brought
this journal down to read and realign
the present with the long departed past,
but here a piece of you recalls our lives
entwined, ossified, fractured, now recast
by a fallen crescent of dead cells that drives
the memory of a time together spent
and your absence, which I do not lament.
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