A Ragged Poem

If you could see my hands right now, you would read a ragged poem. Skin I won’t miss and some bits I do, and ash from so many different fires. At least five or so across fortyfive miles of mountains. If you could see my feet right now, you would be doing better than me. Foundations can’t always be seen. Doesn’t mean this house isn’t strong. Though it does have its own form of mouse. If you had had my night last night, you would’ve heard them too. Scratching up walls next to you. Being bold. Head covered not just for cold. If you could feel the warmth I’m beside, touched by flickering light, and listen through the insects, and barely see the starshine, it still would not be the same. Not my. Not I. But you. And yours. I call it mine. Though I am sure, It goes by different names.

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