It’s the dust that forms pleasure and pain
Dust that brings bloodshed and shame
Can anything good come out from among dust?
Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh
Barely holds my hand and yet makes dust melt
It’s the dust that defines us and the rib that carves
That “hollow” that haunts and always seeks to be found
The space that yearns to be filled even by one unworthy
Within the emptiness and longing
Winding between the spaces were the hands that held the time
Stolen moments froze the warmth of previous lifetimes
Never forgotten, just suspended as my heart burnt with jet fuel
Found but lonely
Rediscovered and scared
The floodgates have cracked in the opposite direction
It’s too late to defend
Watch the waters flow
Torn…
Every river has two banks
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