The steady flow of thoughts
cascade,
down the crevices that
stored your image,
numbed are the fingers that
once traced
heavens on your silky smooth
skin
and, as if fitted with
needles
the thought of yours on my
prickle me,
injuring,
the
painstaking slow process of forgetting,
as slow as time, crawls an
inch in ten years,
and your picture, engraved
in unreachable crevice – the soul
slows everything to distant
blur, only you
only you is visible, stark
and clear
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