Corridor

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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.

(dtn)

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