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My skin is fragile as paper

left outside to weather seasons’ change,

and on the other side are scrawled

forgotten words as ancient as the stars.

My skin is never clear enough,

but I can almost read them

in the pressure mark before the blood

runs back in again.

Slowly, as the seasons pass,

all the sleeping words inside me

will percolate out through my pores

as I look the other way.

After that I’ll see them only

in short glimpses at a distance;

and I will spend my whole life searching

for what it is they say.


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