The edges inside are pointed now,
Pressing into tissue soft -

I often wish that someone
Would write me,
Paint me more beautiful
Than these issues.

I know that someday,
I will look down
And find only these reflections,
A box of dust,
From this long list of infinite questions
For which the answers have burnt
In some solar flare.

10/01/2010

Posted on 10/01/2010
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