Smoke and Ghosts

We will wake up and wonder
about smoke and ghosts, time
mapped with crust, sticky crumbs,
the color of play, brown and able,
blurry prints on flat paint.
Dry fingers stretch like lie
and insistent weed. Sharp words
bound in the pink of our cheeks,
sore and split, cracks in concrete
full of treasure, sweat or blood.
They will outgrow our sentiment,
morning blister across
their sleeping faces. The bright
of their dreams climb marble ledge,
the rise and fall of warm breath,
evidence we ever existed.

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Categories: Writing

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