Texture

Dry as paper
It remained
The only trace
being the crumple
where the fallen ones
had dried
Rising
As hopes had
Before the tears
Could make their mark

If it could
Would it go back
crisp and fresh
untouched
Would it give up the curves
Earned in waste
Textured
Beyond repent or pine
Between buckle and bulge
This was left
For mine

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