When other things failed, today
I looked at your photograph
traced you with my thick fingers
and begin to write, in desperation.
Words failed me, like you.
I sleep with shivers when
words haunt me inside, relentlessly.
It has been too much time since peace.
There is a rage I subside
in the mortality of words
that erupts in inconsequential thoughts
when I look at your photograph
and trace you with my thick fingers.
I wonder what I would write, without.
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