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Fragments Of A Burgeoning Moment


You stopped. Looked, then listened.

The snatches of conversation along the footpath.
The low light of the evening spilling onto the dusty sideboard. The feel of the rake stabbing into the hard ground.
The taste of the first cup of tea in the morning.
The pile of blankets that go unused but are forever washed. The books with their spines intact.
The hollow of silence in the chair at Christmas.
The, the.

And the stark reminder crashed into you like a sledgehammer wrapping itself around you slowly and heavily. As if compiled of gloom and misery, the angular indentations of the well-worn appearance. The familiar sense that you couldnʼt stop keep feeling like this, they were not here to recall anymore. I watch you stop, look, then listen and you think I donʼt notice but I do. Our touches are becoming less frequent and lighter as the years get longer.

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