A Distant Love
Staring at me
from a paper window,
your eyes speak safely
from so long ago.
I caress your face freely
as I wonder who you are.
Are your eyes blue,
your hair black?
Your clothes a touch unwashed,
yet your mustache groomed,
stoic and steady,
like a statue you sit.
Here you lay
on a table of this and that.
Your existence forgotten,
but this proof you once breathed.
Your feet once trod this earth,
shoes worn and broken.
The only footprint left behind
costs a quarter.
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