Perfectly imperfect you
shining, walked into memory
of dawn and orange clouds
leaving me leaning forward
caving around phantom hand
like an ice sculpture,
fruitlessly pursuing a heated knife
You shine again
soot-blackened, rain covered glass
beside a red street light
the nightfall in your aspect
a reflection of who once I was
and what once I did
and if I squint, maybe I can see
a candle within?
and I not ice and you not metal
and you sand, and I tide,
retreat.
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