This morning:
a pull towards
something more,
fingernail grazing,
tonguetip nameless;
my feet
suddenly
too large
for shoes
I have
more than filled.
This is not
enough,
these muscle memory
movements
through foggy days.
I openhand hope
for a season
of becoming.
The unfinished sentence
begs to be
completed-
but I cannot find
a pen.
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