they feared the ancient spaces, the tiny rivulets of wonder between breath and blood
so long hidden, now, in locked boxes underneath beds.
in pockets against strong thighs. inbetween the pages of dusty books.
the recognition hurts them, like white-hot fire lashing against their bare knees.
dying to warm the still-flickering embers of their fragile hearts.
to resurface in the slightest whispered breeze.
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