The night seems to come undone

in the loose ends of a streetlight

throwing down

on a damp moss mound of cloth,

a bundled tangle of breath

behind the light you never look behind

a face comes undone

in the way you see it

and hands move over you

in instinct, the hands you forgot

in words
searching to explain

how empty they sound

and how empty your hands

will still be with change

and you see her face

where you lost your own,

and she smiles

the miasma amassing in your dreams,

delicately spinning the light all around her

into the silk of hidden meaning

and when she shows you

she never asked for change

The night’s seams come undone

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