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Artist
The Weight of White
The world has washed itself clean today,
Erasing lines where the horizon used to be.
I stand rooted, a fragile stem in the frost,
Holding the only color left in the universe.
You are there, and you are not.
A spill of water on the paper,
A hesitation of the brush.
You walk towards the edge of the page,
Where the white turns into silence.
I burn here, a crimson anchor,
Too heavy with life to follow you into the mist.
I wait on this trembling branch,
Watching you dissolve,
Breath by breath,
Until there is only the fog,
And the red ache of remembering.