He echoes like an ocean
beckoning the ashen ankles
of Time. Days quiver alongside Fate’s
broad hands as they enclose his
pillow—immaculate, and
languishing beneath a fragmented mind.
Daughters transmute to shadows
and eventually evanesce along with
last week’s spaghetti and yesterday’s
anniversary. He pulls threads out of
his gown, hoping they’ll swell into a
mound he’ll remember making. Though
it grows day by day, the cause of the expansion
is a consequence of not remembering
the freedom of the first thread.
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