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The Impostor

  • Writer: Nic
    Nic
  • Nov 8, 2020
  • 1 min read

You are an emptiness, an absence,

the silence where song used to be,

morning light with no shadow cast,

diminished by years, by distance.


He presses at the edges of memory

without knowing, without seeing how

ache grows when given enough space,

how your ghost billows between us,


how his shine makes me long

for your sharpness.

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