The Radio

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Your voice wants to be held. Close tucked into the palm of my ear and bent like crooked fingers curling, you smolder. Burnt notes crackle. You are the tip of an unfiltered cigarette. You ash where others breathe. When my hand opens, you’re caught, finger fried in the molding of what wants to be said and what slips behind. Forever binding, you fall in between the cracks of my hearing. Softer words were never said.

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