empty as they are,
miss no particular part of you;
your voice is a ripple that drops into the lake,
skews the reflection of the sky,
bends blues into green,
tears leaves into the atmosphere;
it gold-stitches the sunlight into the clouds
and shatters actuality,
sitting lakes edge,
look down at my feet;
what once was my view of the world is now liquid lead,
heavy on the mind,
it funhouse-mirrors all i once held to be true,
no eyes but mine can watch the way you bend this light;
let it distract me from the truth it simultaneously shows to me
you taught my hands what empty truly is;
your rippling voice,
the quiver of your lake,
no season has every been the same,
the pattern here,
a lack of one;
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