This silence that rises from the worn floorboards, this silence that twists between the insistence of distant music and the full-throated hush of the rising wind, this silence that tangles between thought and memory sings beneath your skin. It is a quiet that lingers outside of sound, a stillness fixed somewhere between all the strings and keys, the fixed point that glistens when you listen hard with eyes shut tight. It clings to the drift of each moment, stretched to fit the shape that enforced formlessness invites. Teeth licked beneath closed lips, slick and ready to make up any operant difference between a smile and a bite. Time rises like steam, like some lovely infatuation, making certain that you watch it as it leaves.
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maybe why infatuation stirs so deep