The Art of Holding On

You exist in my memory as a
Foggy day, where the trees aren’t really
Visible, but you look at them anyway, because
You know they’re there, and as a
Pixelated, grainy picture, straight out of an old
Movie poster, one of those films about
Goodness and love, and you exist as a
Distant train, creating tracks all around my
Consciousness, and as a room of
Smoke, full of unreliable events and
Confused forgiveness.

NYC23778

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