Sunday, May 16, 2010


Unmade mistakes wait
impatiently around the corner.
I think of a promise's
moist petals as I press

you into the pages
of this book. You were
wet when I met you,
alive with what mattered

more than breath.
Now you are paler
than the last memory
I have of you standing

outside, looking around
for traces of the air.

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