Life, a womb scent fraught with death. Or life. It’s just a seam on either side the same. Both sleep they steal. The only respite’s tears

you try to weave the mind spark to fill what’s gone, to wring a passable texture there but, no Give up. It’s closed, she says with her small hands. Her small cheek settles against mine.

The world just isn’t the same because some people are never really gone And, death, like child, does grow and need you less. The hues we carry on our backs embolden our descent as we become much more of who we really are.

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I write abecedarian sequences

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