Gravity Boots

Your voice was
Motown
frozen in acid,
thawing out at dawn
in the Nevada desert.

Your embrace was
a pair of gravity boots within
an exercise in weightlessness.

Your walk was
like a time machine slowing
detail, casting a magnifying lens
over surface.

Your wit was
like one magpie being joined
by another;
broken shells hanging
from beak as the sun sets.

Your words rest
within this vacant mansion
of my heart;
marionettes with their strings
laid to rest.
Inanimate but present.

 

 

 

 

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