Thursday, July 5, 2018

less than.



the summer months are a
culmination of lines
blurred, memories become
an animal, I look to my hands to
study the lines on my face, a mirror
in several dimensions, I can see right
through each sensation

I am still longing for
imperfection, again or for the
first time, I  know the heaviness of
the air from august, we have come
nearly full circle and
still my palms know who you are

how often I wait
for the future
to catch up

so many times to start and stop.

I pause to read the hand I have
been dealt, peer into the same soul with
a different face, knowing I
have never been half. 


© 7.5.2018 heather brager

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