It’s the pause I like best. In between moments of rest and wake keeps eyes parched like paper. Scratchy and dry they turn toward the edges of something missed by only a mark. It’s the Almost but Not Quite of a powdered face striving for beauty. It’s pale, but not painted. The period at the end of the sentence seems too final.
It’s in the skinny places where buildings almost touch. It’s the space between shadows where you’re almost invisible. It’s the cross section of thoughts that mean something and the thoughts that want to be something. They intersect, briefly touching in a fleeting moment before the intensity is too much. And then there is retreat.
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