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It is a soft thing, my memory

of you, gentle like a pond reed

yielding to my dream hands

so keen on shaping what is

into what was.

They mold us together

like mud and stones

to dam the trickle of time.

We were harmonious

a season ago.

They don’t care to know

of our decomposition,

that all kinds of fishes

have nibbled us away.

Not lost, just dislodged. Free

to skip along the riverbed

or hitch a ride in the jetstream

of a prismatic trout. That is

what it’s about, isn’t it?

In the end?

A slow erosion

of broken pieces

until we’re smoother,

more stable,

better friends.


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