places we can't go.
we can see them.
out past the noise
of day to day
and the silence
of the urn on the mantel.
the skin remembers
the touch, the heat
the cool fingers,
the scent and taste
of a moment old
as yellowed headlines.
a noon, with summer
like a blanket
and the sun froze
a lady bug crawling
on a rose thorn,
and the girl from
honolulu sat on
a bench among
the hundreds,
ignored and torn.
and the ashes
in the hourglass
won't run
upside down.
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