Translucent, I hide
like a gentle breeze
caressing leaves and pages
of trees and notebooks
to draw a story
by absence entirely defined.
I am made of holes
and all the fleeting things
that accumulate in the dusty corners
of a desert stricken life.
I am the button of that old shirt,
The book that once was borrowed,
The clippings of never made recipes .
The delicate dedications left unread.
I dwell in the topology of wanting,
Mapping whole oceans of desire.
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