thin sheets of carbon between layers
of intention, good clean plans.
Each letter strikes and leaves behind
a dark outline, a residue
recorded.
Dust on the fingers
incidental contact with the least expected,
bodies come away marked
by a brush, not lightly brushed off.
There is no coming back, not
in the same way, never spotless again.
The neighbor who fell, whose eyes
went somewhere else entirely, who heard
me calling him back.
There was that time I called myself back.
An empty page, the clean white everything else
compromised.
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