That long short year showed me who I was

But not who I wasn’t.

That long short year dictated how far

My ability to grasp for identity could reach.

Lying awake, clutching at fragments of instants

Hoping they would still be there when

The silent sun came knocking:

Those inquisitive buttons on a half-sewn coat

Wondering who they would envelop in an

Obligatory embrace;

Silken hands shaping silhouettes of feet that

Contemplated the dark emptiness of their

Abyssal interior;

Trudging through the snow we wondered

If winter ended and gave way to a summer

Of realization or an eternity

Of questions.

This long short day is an unruly cluster

Of many long short years

Clasped together with pieces of familiarity.

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