the skies fill with the fall cold
and we held our hands
clenched in tiny little
bleached fists until we got old
and gnarled, faces creased like
letters from the attic
yellow, with feathered edges.
sometimes, we would stop and
let the perfect distance
quell the static
that, from heart to heart,
lept like fall leaves kicked up
by a passing car.
1 comment:
amazing.
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