Given time, desires breathe
their final colored lights and flick
to flakes of gray: white unfruitions
scattered on cement.
Hopes’ betrayals peel
from the pale cores of old loves
that, blown, roll into the cracks
of memory to endure
beyond significance.
So the comfort in yearning
is the anticipation of yearning’s
end, when longings no longer
hurt the lungs, but rest
in a film of wet ash
under the breath.
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