Paradox in memory

If I push the muscles of my cheeks skyward,
furrow my brow, blur the edges, try stretching
the cornea of my inner eye, if I deny

that others live, then that shy kid hung
like a stoplight, high on your every
twitch, aligns in memory and myth,
till both lie and truth exist.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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