Vol 8, Num 16 :: 2009.07.31 — 2009.09.03
I knew these withered hands, always open
when they were rougher. But warm.
Still faces never change, they just fade
further away. Yours is dim now,
hiding those twin blue mischievious flames
already passed down to me, years younger,
carrying on your name. Grandpa
I’m missing
you.
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