Surely as a lesson that appears from the chalked hand that faces the board.
Swiftly as the welt from the back of a hand that forward would caress.
Plain, plain, as the message in the smooth, rubber map of a keloid whipped back.
It is the back of you that exposes the treachery of this fate, that like a moth called by flame to sure demise, I can not turn, nor let go, nor close my eyes, as the back of you tells my heart good-bye.
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