a death, down the hall (or inside)

just to hear you breathing, tiny in your ungrown shell, has done more to bring me life than the air itself could do. dim is the room and bright is the candle in your eyes. whatever i have done or undone i cannot imagine i deserve this particular type of grace. the kind which is effortless, the kind which fills the hunger and ribbons about the bones and slides easily like soft rivers from the tongue. this is the caress of the darkness of which no one ever speaks. there are no sounds, no words, nothing to repeat. for all the voices, all the years that ever were, pass by this single secret place in a moment. in a blink. how few open their hands and give like this. without even trying.


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