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Some aftermaths burst unseen within, as aftershocks of sorrow, arriving as electric jolts that crash through your skin. Those shockwaves subside, twinkle out like embers; the Kleenex runs out, then you patch up a memory like a pair of jeans you cannot throw away. Then there is that other kind… those become a stealth lingering, a picture hung at the back of your mind, a denial hovering over you like a Hokusai ‘Wave’ always a verge, a cresting, a toppling brink that falls so slow you don’t see it because you are in that image somewhere. It’s a cold tidal wave waiting to scorch you tongue with another winters frostbite. That kind of aftermath is always at hand to drown you again. When you feel that towering brim shout at it just as loud as you can.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021

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