Looping letters in pen,
my fingers contain dances
that my tongue is meant to spin.
But, without them, you wouldn’t hear me
over mountain ranges and
thousands of miles eastward.
This instrument will take the sounds,
twirling and swaying in my arms,
and transmit them through your eyes.
There’s a hunger that crumbs of words
could never stave.
Grasp.
Hold.
In stillness,
you know possession is impossible.
Let’s look not at one another, but
to the approaching terrain
wrapped in shadows of dropping moonlight.
The landscape will explain every twinge
these small dances can only hint at
through dusty, fading footsteps…

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