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a hundred ways



the silvery tines of memories slowly fade

eveyday you become less clear to me


your face, the way you hold your hands

are ever more distant


the crackle of your laughter

the wrinkle on your forehead when you worry


it all becomes a blur

enmeshed together in a distant space and time


until the thought of you

is no longer the first thing in the morning
or the last before i dream