Standing on the line that Id like to cross
Out-- the brink of Touch.
This pen hesitates,
Hovers over its statement
As a witness.
If let loose, these words
would lead you straight to me;
They are my shadow.
But I stand in them now, dipped in black,
Open hands dripping.
I look at you, knowing that I am
Trying to caress a weaving,
Careless
Spiral of smoke.
A chase almost as empty
as running after the wind. Only,
my fingertips do brush against the gray,
Even as it melts and fades.
If I had left
any deeper a pause,
this ink might have seeped in
without my needing to write it out
at all.












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