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What is this feeling? I cannot capture
Enough scabrous syllables to define
Every infinitesimal fracture
Of this incarcerating paradigm.

Like the wind I long to weave myself through
The empty spaces between your fingers.
Everything is fleeting; I think of you
On paper napkins, where theory lingers;

Where every temperamental tally mark
Is a shackle upon my every vein,
Provoking this Prosody of Petrarch—
I’ve lost count once more–I’m falling again

Into my hindsight beneath my eyelids
Where afterthoughts dream of love blindsided.

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