the words slip soundlessly
finding their own tune. each one
filled with tension, bursting ready,
twisting, talking, waiting
to be plucked or pulled,
strung together. they want
to be felt, to be touched,
like water slipping through
fingers. embracing the soft skin
edged around this text
unformed and unforming
in the recesses of the brain.
the shadows long in the afternoon
and it is time, again, for eating.
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