Us, praying.
We dig our words like holes.
Lift the veil! our shame-faced ghost cries into mirrors. You are always my anathema.
She seeks tunnels, and so it should be.
A happy lover once wrote: Even the thinkers are tired of their thoughts.
But those who dream in columns? I ask, knowing nothing by degrees.
I fear myself.
Let me tunnel, my ghost begs. Touch me in the way that you do, please. Between your fingers but far from my skin. Pray to me.
Pray to you.
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