Arising, like a lick of flame
bubbling, rushing, sweeping.
Quiet.
Pulsations from the chest,
the rise and fall of passing cars
the mosquito irritation of a moto.
tick tick
pulse pulse
Gently, quietly, with real curiosity
the tentacles softly approach
who feels
who hears the traffic and the clock?
Ahh, the gentle smile runs
like a delicate stream
to the tips of fingers and toes.
Fear sets its construction in place
and still I breathe,
air rasping in my throat.
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