How can I preserve that physical place you have left on my heart?
With-out ever truly knowing,
The misty reaction of our embrace.
Would we falter, or become wound so tightly into one another,
Like kites stuck between branches.
Or would we float off into other directions,
Like leaves in a storm.
The crisp sounds of our bodies,
Caught up on the pavement,
Running away,
As we leave pieces of ourselves behind.
And not enough words to be cried.
We become archived as if we are nothing more than a record,
Of something too accessible, too obvious,
Though not apparent enough,
As our hearts that were once left skipping,
Now sink.
Likes stones carelessly skimmed.
Our weight too heavy to carry, or understand.
Instead we let the current pull us away,
Towards more precious objects that help us forget for a while.
Until we open up those archives, and spit at the rain, the wind,
Everything that tore us a part.
Never to become wound in one another.
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