Miracle

Standard

Slyly… The shift…
The bastards rejoining meanwhile.
Hindered, we touched
the tip of the baked sky.
Gesturing with her eyes,
she murmured. Muted offerings
on beds of rock. And I took stock.
Good absence. Purring waters
through her fingers.
And the twist, existence
withheld grief but for the motors.
This was the breakdown.
Leaving prints in the fresh snow,
where her heart lay waiting.

-r. miller

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