Sometimes I look at you and see all the doors of the world
open before you like a corridor lined with millions of eyes
stapled open to every rustle of your fragile eyelashes.
I hold my breath as I witness every picture framed
behind the doorways, sure that the slightest thought
will splinter the frame as eternally as a lost limb,
no chance of regrowth, only the thundering echo of loss.
If only I could leave the corridor without the vagabond
of doubt by my side and the stringed kite dragging at his,
each lie he tells adding line one tug closer to catching.



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