February 19

It’s as if we wish remembering admits
us to the past, as if our stubs and our fuss
could bring us back, could take back all the bad and good

which came from where we stood. But this glitch
of the present is more like a glove,
less like a record, or love left chess
match. It bleeds, more like a scratch.

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Author:

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

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