atendante, parto du

up here in the cold mountains
the wind whips my face like a kiss
a backhanded slap from a formerly soft hand
hardened by the jagged edges of the ground beneath my feet

let the days of forgetting begin
forgetting us, wrapped together in a summer haze
forgetting you, wondering what passes by behind your eyes
forgetting scraps of memories that float in from time to time

I hold so much of other people inside of my heart
a dash from here, maybe a hand or two from a friend
thousands of people whose names I have logn since forgotten
but still have carved a chink out of the rock

maybe one day, millions of people will stare at these pages
and might find an eyeball or two staring back
for an artist’s life is on display constantly
and their work screams of all their secrets

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