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Sand smoothes.
Time sifts.
Swiftly tips.
Parched lips, wait.
On one hand, hours hush.
On the other, longer, hand minutes mix.
As a buried rope, in the sand rises suddenly,
so does the heartstring that tugs our magnetic fields to grow together.
Nodding in unison.
Yearning outside of time.
Is it such a crime?
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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