[ .folding. ]

[oh, how he wants to write of all
the wonder he has known —
the sweet curve of her neck, and how
her golden hair the sunlight shone

of how the world closed in one day,
and he gave up the fight —
so many things that he would say
if he could only write

but blank white space is all there is
upon the page he’s holding –
in truth, and in tale-telling
all that’s left sometimes is

folding   ]

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