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eighth, dec your hand left in friendship on my back - as we walk down the road - radiates heat in golden rings, one following the other, like ripples left by the rock i threw into the reflective boundaries of the park pond. my body confides in me that it doesn't want a friend. i interrupt: will anyone find this rock again when the water finally dries up? as the day fades, the circumference of the rings continues to increase until they are as thin as a breath. weak like brittle twigs, i wish they didn't crack. i wish they shattered once and for all so i could sweep up the pieces and be done with it. |