What is the touch that slips through my mind’s fingers,
Never beholden to the present, always in front of me, always behind?
Its fingers touch me but I’m never able to touch them back.
In a constant flow, one moment ends and another begins,
But even that moment can be divided into infinite fingers of endings and beginnings.
I can only rely on unstable hands of memory to grab at them, desperately,
Never as satisfied as when I touch the present.
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