I will paint you in a prison of light and shadow, locked within walls of thin air. A million random strokes and smudges, until I have some semblance of you on canvas, trapped in a haze of color, lost in an arrangement of mazes. I will paint you frozen, from memory.
But you’re not that far. Just an incredibly long series of left and right turns away.
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“But you’re not that far.”
That half-line makes me want to write a poem.