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Wish I could hold it in my fingertips.

Caress the gentle strains

of seconds passing by.

Grasp it in my palm,

r

e

i

n

it in.

Pull it back to younger times,

Of sunshine

and grass

and butterflies.

But my eyes flicker to your face, swathed in a moonbeam river.

“What about us?”

my heartbeats whisper.

And the sunlight seems a little less golden

the grass a little less green

the butterflies less aflutter.

Thus I twine our fingers and let go of my vision of yesterday,

as we laugh merry into the night

and catch snowflakes on our tongues.

 

x

ritoma

ritoma

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