I hear you vaguely as I glide
Down the steep memory lane
Which turns your sayings into postcards
I am succombing once again
To all the people that I was
To every I and eye that mark the length
Between me and here
You say your shoulder touches both my cheeks
But will I ever see you truly
Amid this plea yesterday stubbornly bleeds
On my renewal?
I stroll inside this black and white by Goya
Trying to strip my face from rats and burns
Hoping your touch will meet a skin more even
When I emerge from the dark ages
Within our two inches apart.
There is a red mark on my forehead
Going down
Going straight
Slitting the run that gives my spread
A sense of marriage.
I love you
The words are as real as the sound they make
However you're too close to seem anything but
The evidence of your presence.
I try to touch the perfect circles on your face
From elsewhere divided.
But will I ever see you wholly
With a sight torn to tenses?
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