A sprinkling of moss caught in my cuffs takes me back to the slabs sitting silently while mice scamper over the rocks three feet from me and I push into the memory of gravel pressing deeper into the skin of my knees while I wait fruitlessly I want to go back want to put out my hand and hold fine paper to your stone like the child I’ve always been and let the wax roll over your name again and again the facsimile growing stronger until you are there in the absence and I can carry you away with me.
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