the
pages of your skin drift free
in
the smallest touch of an excessive sky.
the
air's profuse disappointment
tints
hushed eyes and twists a
smile
that attracts with concealment.
It
would be wrong to say you hold prayers
but
what is it your fingers seek
within
hands forgotten to themselves
my
desire is not for ears to filter the gray voiced
lament
but to be found hiding in your hands
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