the hardest is neither
your space in the bed, nor your things
on the things chair, neither your socks nor stray hairs
it's the impression you left
in all of it. as if you're returning
later today, but today will last
a season. so i wonder, will we see more days
that last seasons in our years?
then, and only then
i may learn to lend
your impression to the space
between time.
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