I stole the light
from an instant in time; ripped
it straight from the split-
second. Snap shot, it was mine.
Light freezes to death, pinned
like a specimen butterfly to an album
or imprisoned in a frame.
Eventually thrown to fade
amongst the junk beneath a bed
or discarded in the rain.
I stole that light from a night
last year. It danced in your eyes
and toyed with your hair.
Strange
how in order to make something ours,
we pluck it like a flower from the earth
only to watch it spoil, scratch,
and corners start to curl.
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