I pull at the string
holding memory
close to itself-
how you fed me
how you showed me windows
in a home full of closed doors
mirrors full of soul
reflecting from glass to glass
in dirty hues,
barely real
barely clean
I wasn't afraid to be small with you,
but all that gold
hidden under the table
where we dined and talked
without saying a word?
I didn't think it was mine.
I miss the comfort
of your soul
as much as I've missed mine before.
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