the puppeteers have a mind of their own as they prance around pulling the strings attached to my heart.
i dont recognize the rhythm & trip all over my own feet.
but as i untwist i can tilt back with eyes closed.
the patterns are still there. the flash.
its only intensified & i hope that never changes.
& that's where my mind floats.
in change.
its there where my hands are hesitant yet antsy to allow dedication.
yearning for touch.
but finding a sense of accomplishment in their difference.
like that freckle.
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