The dawn bleaches out the dream

Twice I have held the world in my arms,
in November and late July,
before the carousel slowed,
before the photographs fell silent.

It’s not the presence
but the void,
it’s not the new
but the old I watch
hand tied and dumb
through a window ajar
but not enough to grasp.

We walked a fine line
between memory and lies
when nothing was wrong
everything was hidden
just beneath the surface
tension and tears lingered;
all memories now,
smaller than the space between rain,
made colder by an arm’s length.

© D. Archer. January 2015

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