What we remember

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Ina

Rounder than a full moon but just as pale
Is this perfect memory of feelings
Nailed on the wall of time, framed in golden,
Watercolours fading in each other
The almost white pink of our tenderness,
The blueish green of mornings without you,
An image of all we thought was forgotten.
But the nail is squeaking in the evening breeze
And one day the wall will let go of everything.

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