Sat by a sleeping man and gestured toward his hands, said
nothing, closed them around a handful of water chestnuts and
waited for the familiarity of my skin to float on the surface of his pale
blue eyes-- they searched mine, didn't find much except maybe
the faint recognition of my smile and how I
Woke up one morning to watch the fog hang over
the river, appearing and disappearing and just as quietly
wondered how it'd feel to become a figment of one's lonely
imagination-- traced the creases of his hands and
supposed it had already been done.
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