In a spatial agreement
Between weekdays and ends,
There are no breaths to be held
Nor a need to pretend.
Breathing softly
Hands on the back,
But not behind the head.
Instead directions are reflections
From rivers, windows, all untold
To be tucked away in the folds of my brain.
The thought is a stain that I won't clean up
I missed the elevator twice,
But angels find their way up
Because I always new this life was heaven-sent.
It is nothing substantial,
But of substance nonetheless.
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