The Tenth Letter

I owe more apologies
than I have breathe in my lungs.
Occam's Razor has been dulled,
leaving extraordinary claims and
not a semblance of proof:
our hypothesis proven true.

Running laps in between the lines
ideally and presumptively;
flirting with a perfect world,
but ready to burn it down
if reality's knife runs through.
Another set of fingers, please!
Another feminine voice
to cure the nausea of leaving
such a luminous beauty.
The vicious cycle is mutilating.

I've been made a child again,
recalling the colors and scents
of playing in eager innocence;
a coup of time warping kisses
under the light of hushed divinity.
A giant hand eclipsing the smaller,
too indignant to effectuate a clasp;
if only we weren't halves and pieces,
if only superstition
were a doctrine to live by.

Is it too much
if it's true?
Or better yet,
is it true
if we fell in a forest
and nobody heard?

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