A contemporary poem about what the roots remember, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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I watch you become bright in a language I once needed. The old red in our roots refuses translation. You carry it forward without carrying me. This is the fear of love at its most honest: to be left behind by what you helped begin. I loosen my grip. The future keeps the colour.
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A contemporary poem about weekend without witnesses, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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