It's strange to think of you as lonely
when you’re surrounded by all the people you’ve touched.
I don’t think anyone else
really knows what contact means - we
might brush outer shadows
scrape against hoarfrost
but you know how to touch
and of course you made that moment golden
found everything after heavy as lead,
inevitably food became tired
metal in your mouth
but you knew
with the certainty of breath
the gap between close
and touching;
it’s proven by your lungs, still moving
not inverted gold sarcophagi,
by your flesh, unbroken
by the billions of neutrinos
not turning into gold bullets, riddling you
with blazing glory every second
but passing through you and the earth
unnoticed.
Only some things stay with you.
But I was never just that memory of golden years.
You know, our daughter is old now.
In case you didn't notice, I left
I need this time around people
who don't know who I was so well
so I can still move.
Do you remember?
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