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The Recurring

His skin is a white tree in the cold.
His face, a bright ghost.

There is no winter here in Texas,
but the light changes, grows sharper,

keener, and it was breath to me
as I walked up the hillside

to school, catching the wind
with my throat.

In the dreams I've had of him,
it is raining.  A light mist,

and then I wake to an empty room feeling
happiness as though happiness exists.

He was the rain, he would come and go,
he was there for everyone.
Posted 05/27/12
This piece was previously published in Issue 3.1 of Gigantic Sequins
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