The shape of you is real
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skin, muscle, and sinew
I see in the color and form of you
an impression of the past
falling to pieces before my eyes
First hairline, eyes then lips...
The shape of me is normal
the skin of me an assemble.
One day my clothes will walk out
and meet you to talk to you-
an abstract made real-
So I, fearful, remaining behind, might fancy
they were talking to the dead.
I will not touch you
though all that is really I want to do
I want to trace the shape of you
imagining someone else
died too young-
ashes before I was born.
The conscious shape reality.