a handful of ashes

could i do it?

of course i could. but i have to wait on others.

i hate waking this desire again because i get burned.

and burned and burned.

and yet, us silly humans,

we can’t stop hoping.

it’s caught in my throat like a sob,

or like victory yell.

caught in my hand like a punch not yet swung

or a delicate butterfly

or a handful of ashes.


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