when poems are keepsakes

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a writer can wonder
if the words they’ve given to someone they once loved
last as long as intended

do they sit on tables
out of close reach, greeted only by sunlight
and maybe, watered by the eyes

are they locked up in
shoeboxes, their vigor held in store
with the memories of so many others

do they come out to play
in the onyx hours
and add their perfume to the breezes they contain

or do they become ink
that stitches itself in the skin
permanent even into the next world

this is why writers don’t give their words lightly

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