Valentine, Between the Lines

Strategizing on the basis of exactly
nothing (more than whispered wish), you
shred up your affection: spread a fractal
spray of it out towards some faint desire –




prompted by a private iconography: bred
from the sight of a remembered pale tense
face – the sight, inside, not here, not right
now here in front of you, a secret sight –




which makes your senses race, the inward
sight of which, of whom, beclouds then
clarifies with its frank pull: everything takes
place between the lines: blank, full.





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