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2024

hehirsarah

Night.

But not oblivion.

 

On the blank screen

there flickers to life

the small comfort of you

in the muscle memory

of the best of what we’ve been.

 

It’s so small, it’s easy to believe

in the imprint of your thumb

in the hollow of my palm:

your finger tracing light along my skin.

 

No histrionics here.

This is a budget show.

 

In fact, it’s small enough that its touch

should hardly brush the sides of sleep.

But I feel its loss!

And wake to ice splinters,

magnifying jagged and untamed:

from shard to stalactite to leviathan.

 

It’s okay.

These things I'll fight with slow counted breaths

and later coffee and a one-size-fits-all mask of normality.

It’s just the small things that will kill me.



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hehirsarah@yahoo.co.uk

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