When I mourn
I fantasize about then, being a continuous string
Still puncturing the now
I am still
Paused in pondering
The question I ask myself most often
Do they remember?
Am I alone in remembering?
Recalling
Rewriting the story
So that the ending is
Gone
Without a trace
Like all those whose needles have gone to sew in other fabrics
But they left a heavy trace
Lead knows a similar weight
I do not try to lift it
For that string has ended
There.
Note from the author: work in progress
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