All That’s Left


The imaginary brush of windy lips against your neck

The chill crawling up your back, prickling down your arms

The soft afterimage of forgotten fingertips on your skin

The hand you feel lightly grasping yours in the darkness

That disappears when you close yours around it

You will find me there


The place in your mind you’re afraid to venture to

The fingers twisted around your heart like vines

The persistently awkward lump in the back of your throat

The pit sinking into the darkness of your stomach

That seems to burrow on endlessly

You will find me there


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