Imagine it.
And imagine then that’s all you had;
a slither of reality –
no. Ideality. –
existing only inbetween
material connections,
like sequencing the static,
making messages of snowstorms,
reading not between the lines
but all the edges of your letters,
drawn out to both confess and hide
and seek and lie and whisper
halve truths, whole truths,
broken thoughts and details,
alluding to a truer you
that once you knew;
at once, outgrew.


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