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Between words and silence is a space –

a chink where word has not begun and

silence is already rustling her skirts –

 

A fissure where absence of silence and lack of words

makes iridescent heat.

 

This is the skin of reality.

It is thin. It is unreal.

It is the space of an alone instant.

 

It is where hope flickers. It is where love leaps.

It is when tomorrow dies.

 

It remains suspended like a perfect snowflake. It never dies.

It stands forever, etched on the wall of the mind.

Or sometimes it digs a hole in the heart. It lives in that hole. Forever.

 

The instant melts, snowflake it is.

Then the words rush in.

Silence has gathered its skirts and left.

And all is said…

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