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Poetry

Six Years

It was discovered in tinfoil and lace: the way
your hands would softly knead dough, clumsy
gently across a kitchen counter

I once called “mine”.

And you, ghost, who follows
room to room, asks in wisps of smoke
from the stovetop

if I will ever feel “better”. This is distraction.

Your nose turns up as the timer reaches “ready”
and it is but a sound that escapes your mouth
but never reaches my ear. We were decades of footsteps,
a cold draft from the window you refused to repair.

In Autumn we exchanged letters. They sit at the font of my intention.

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