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mixed with perfect pain. Oh, and how that pain seemed to flow like needed time, dousing the senses with fire and sullen shards. You with your infant sleep, the dark and depthless places you embraced, the rise and fall of your chest. And me with the hounded inadequacies of minimal self-awareness. I looked to the sky, mouth agape, fingers stretched to a velvet supremacy. I knew nothing. Not you. Not I. Not all that had loaded memory’s aisles. There were no names that night, and no ideas that took us beyond that shrouded near forgotten time.

Crack the Spine - Issue 166  

Literary Magazine

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