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I keep telling myself im going under to feel something again,
to feel anything again.
But perhaps there's more to it, maybe im trying to remember something
or forget everything entirely.
Regardless, the anticipation is worth the labor
so i get busy digging.
I go slow to hear myself think, and use my hands to feel her breathe.
The very grains that make up the world we lived upon
fill my hands in scoops by the dozen
each spec rolling center point, resting on these palms so naturally
like it belongs there.
Just like her tiny hands, the stroke of her hair.
Like the warmth of her skin, the grasp of her radience.
Just like her, in every way.
And even more so like her, i pile up these chunks of ground
and throw them to the side, eager to get inside.
Incapable of realizing how beautiful the surface is.
Ill end up burying myself every time.
When you find that all that is below you is what you use to love
the dust you came from, starts calling your name.
To undress you of your flesh,
to put your brittle bones at ease.
You can strap yourself in all the bells a whistles you wish
wrap her warm sweet kisses around your neck
dress yourself in anything short of emotional abandon.
But as you make your descent,
it will all be stripped away
leaving you naked, cold and bare.
And just when you think you are comletely exposed,
stuck calling a hovel your home
you are given a gift.
The ability to remember, the liberty to feel.
Its within the sweet seperation of the ground,
the divine division of soil
that's going to take me home to her.
This is my wit's end,
this is soil's divide.