You perch opposite, breathing precarious.

The window reflects you as a ghost

Through which the scenery rips.

The tree branches tickle your tightly pressed lips,

Meadows streaking along your cheeks;

Grief left, like her grave, to burgeon green.

I learn this landscape as your history.

While you sit, clouds coming out of your eyes,

Your clasped hands trembling like a train on tracks.

I understand time as a motion:

The sunset claws kisses into your wrinkles.


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