Pattern

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my hands,
empty as they are,
miss no particular part of you;pattern

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,
is missed,
the quiver of your lake,
my love;

no season has every been the same,
the pattern here,
a lack of one;

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