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There’s a difference
between home and a dream
you may never wake up from.
Even if your heart chooses
to settle down,
the pains don’t hurt the same.
There’s a vacuum seal certain
memories can’t cross over
and when grace comes through,
it sheds some of its strength
along the limbo between
languages upon translation;
subtleties and shadows
become as much parts of the body
as blood and breathing,
as sound and movement.
Joys come more as milestones
than emotions, triumphs of
resilience and a devotion
to the “bright side”.
Markers in a timeline stretched
like a tightrope across
empty space. When you fall,
there is nothing, or no one.
Blinding stars in layers of glass.
You hold in your hand the other
end of a great distance.
Weightless now, and cold.
All the previous unknowns
torn wide open. Romance and
imagination scrubbed with bleach,
the bare white bones of
love and reason showing.
Walking in a rust and
steel paradise and melodies
that offer only a mimicry
of solace. Everyone you meet
is fed by some unknown fire
whereas you are made of water,
or, if you’re lucky, someone
like you, a fraction of who
they used to be with all
past lives either padded with
bubble wrap or swathed in
a white veil like innocence
parceled to last till old age.
Conversations get watered down
through the wire, the touch
between souls like migratory
hopes, almost business-like
in their brevity and anxious
to leave for kinder climes.
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“Tara Violet Niami in Clinton Hill”
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by photographer Arden Wray

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