Running our hands through the failure
of memories thick, this text of texture
a Braille of sorts, in silent memory.

Changing expressions, eyebrows raised
a hollow laugh ringing away at the blemishes,
still, we know, and it is known by our distorted face.

Head back, eyes skyward
we stumble over things
we’d hoped to overstep.

A knock at the door,
[swiftly forgotten]
we return to the lounge, the walls, and the dust
tracing again, tracing again
these old familiar patterns, often and at leisure,
for all the rest of our days to come.


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