Our voices
Just as we left them
Aged a bit
Nearly take up a whole corner
By the bed
Where my old poems
Still sit on a Cherrywood desk
Still folded
A promise held
To the blotter
As the desk throws
Its shade about the floor
Still shines like
A pile of coins in the sun
Splayed within an
Old handprint
Still warm
A sun that still
Scatters our dead voices
In a shaft of light
My fingers trailing lines
Through the particles
Of what we had once said
When we were still young
Still in love
When our voices still lived.
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