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Paper

by Stuart Bright

The touch of paper against my skin,

Smooth,

A ghost of the varnished table or wooden door you could have been.

Instead you're here beneath my fingers,

Waiting,

Ready to save my thoughts upon your sheets.

Even when my memory fades the ink still lingers.

 

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Tuesday 21st September 2021 6:29 pm

Writing   paper   poetry

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