Strange thing,

The invisible string

Which tethers these eyes to yours…

And binds the hands that cup your own,

With fingers that fill, and expand the gap

Where white noise

Attempts to manifest itself,

Over, and over again.

Is there a prophecy,

Etched in some stone, or painted in clouds,

Of our convergence?

The Devil’s diversions,

Obscuring these tells from our

Passing survey…

Is there an indecipherable tome,

Caked in dust,

And long-ago, sealed away?

Let this explain the mystery of fate.

Or is there a codex

Illustrated by these passive gestures,

And published by the twin presses, that operate in silence,

And in halves, one question posed by the heart

Beside your heart, where none found outside it may see?

Only making sound sense when brought together under the sallow moon…

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