It all rolls off me like sand on dry skin, barely.
It slips through my fingers like cherry pits, sticking slightly.
Round, hard stones, buttons.
I'm collecting them quietly,
these same beads of melancholy,
and I can wear them, dearest loss,
in my hair like pearls.
This is very interesting... beautiful poetry. I feel you might also like my writing style - we have a similar line in the surreal. Let me know what you think, and please keep writing!
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