my own steps terrify me.
the weight of it, the shock of sound
that tells me i am material,
of flesh
and skin that warms to touch.
at dawn i am silent:
a ghost space filtered through misted mirrors;
a slow distillation of light.
only then am i my own.
your hands close over
vapor, violets un-blooming
where there is no earth.
then a blush of dew on knuckles.
a certain gravity. willed into being
by another. i take shape
and lose my self.
Q
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