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Fragments of Us
A flicker, a hush—
not the wind, but the space it forgets.
Not the light, but the way it bends
around the shape of missing things.
You, a hand I never held,
but still, my palm remembers.
A thread unraveling backward,
sewn into the breath of yesterday.
I, the color of echoes,
a ripple in the river of time.
Not the water, but the shimmer,
not the sound, but the hush between.
We exist in the almost,
a constellation never drawn,
a melody before the note,
a love that is and never was.
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