The story you tell me
doesn’t arc. It doesn’t
follow. It doesn’t
rise or fall within one sun’s
cycle. It has no
particular place. It skips
to its own peculiar
rhythms. It takes me
to its many places with no
name, or those names
you’ve given them, the secret
names meant for me and no
other. It’s taken me
so many times, and when
it walks me through them,
I can can see their faces,
through your eyes. The faces
both kind and hard on you,
once smooth or lined, but
always there, I can see
through your eyes. Their pale
green glass casts my shadowy
gaze back to a past, I can’t know
except through you. It’s enough
for me, while I have you
to see it through.
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