Contagious Frisk

You want to stretch out your hand and grasp the softness of meaning, taking away the best part of me.

As soon as there’s the slightest ache of rough reality, your hand recoils, unwillingly to want and hesitant to receive.

Dust builds slowly upon neglected shelves where hands no longer meddle the mettle.

Did you put your dream in a dank box with a lock or a rusty cage without a door?

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