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Pinky Swear

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Sometimes I wish that I could live in limbo
where time is only a number
that lovingly quantifies our memories.

It keeps the most vivid to linger for eternity
as fingers on the hands of analog clocks and
in the penumbra of a rustic sundial;
memories of grinning faces and halcyon summer days
swinging in pendulums, ringing, tick-tocking through time,
forever comforting to a wayward cuckoo bird.

If only I could believe in promises again
I'd hollow out my bones in a heartbeat
and soar through the liquid ebony of the atmosphere,
using your whisper-hushed words
as my airfoil.

I'd turn my face to the stars,
moonlight beading up on my brow and
replacing the tears on my cheeks,
eyelashes casting shadows on those celestial dewdrops
and then we'd float downwards through jet streams
with the dust of infinity in our hair—


But your warmongering pinky finger,
always entwined with my own,
has apologized one time too many.
And cross my heart, hope to die
I won't believe in you anymore.

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