Late May
There's a little bit of me in the cracks of the wall.
Footsteps burned in the grooves of the stairs.
The touch of fingers on the high balanced ceiling.
Worn marks on the door's copper knob.
The soft, quick squeak of the ceiling fan.
And the wings of a moth, like velvet, beating against the screen.
A breath--in through the nose, out through the mouth.
The clear convex dome of your eyes.
And irises in full bloom.
~Hammeh
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