Light, skin, the smell of sweat,

the taste of salted lips.

Hollow things and bloated

baobabs and overripe fruits,

fallen, split and spilt,

coursing remnants and empty,

still, touché to all things

between two parties,

flesh touching, cursing,

passing, unannounced,

gone in instances

from insecurities

and now, years later,

wandering allowed,

what’s lost? Only

what ifs and maybes.

Still plenty left unattended,

broken and unmended.

Past has passed

its haunts and harries,

the sun has set,

its light but lingers.

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