at a complete, and lovely loss,
i hold up my hands, emptyful, and conquerless,
opening the palms up.
the light, in its old age,
eases across them with some difficulty,
slowing to indicate how the contours have grown,
oh my, how they have grown...
the light trails off..
i put my hands away warmly, slipping them into my pockets for later.
i trail on, finished.
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