We carry love
in our cupped hands,
but it’s leaking
through the cracks
of the years,
imperceptibly,
like groundwater
through limestone.
Though we lock
our fingers together,
it manages to seep
through, and—
through no fault
of our own—
it’s been evaporating,
though we’ve hunched
over our palms and
tried to protect it
through droughts and
rough weather.
We made it through
paper and wood,
through tin, but how
are we ever going
to preserve it through
another decade?
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