That lost moment arises in strange and tangled moments, the feeling of a kiss, the electric memory of mingled breath and certainty burning in the soul you keep forgetting you believe exists. We haunt our own lives, as distant from our skins as the dead stars and crumpled myths, walking cold streets with decades of ghosts clattering in our wakes. Time and tenderness natural adversaries as you feel the fever within that far-away flesh, full of lonesome notions and hard learned truths. The light increases as distance gathers, a life of shrouds and shadows blinded by the thought of something that almost was another thing entirely. How in these colder holdings choice seems synonymous with failure, and loneliness the self itself. How that moment lives still, the scent of her hair as it brushes your face, that thrill of being both found and free. The threads of ten-thousand tellings of the same old story, pulling the strings upon the lapsed puppet of your unfathomable love.
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