Incomplete
verses,
for my thoughts are a psychedelic swirl
which crumble like crayons on paper.
letters,
for to find an answer to this riddle of us
is to gather silver in a pail from starry seas.
sentences,
because the hapless paupers my words are
cannot give you all I want you to know.
conversations
that hang in the void between us,
now tread on only by a taciturn silence.
distance,
for it is littered with disjointed fragments
of incomplete letters, sentences and conversations.
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