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Closer, by Britta Benson


It’s always about distance. We’re

bonding over fears of loss. Hope

strikes joyful, like a lottery ticket

in a back pocket, washed, wishing

for thunder, lightning, and a bag of

sherbet lemons to share. We hold

hands across the time zones of life

and death. It’s always about distance.

Ask commuters on a rush hour train,

the irksome clutter in their minds,

their rattled nerves, the cold sweat

drizzling down their necks – their

presence undiluted, incompatible

souls travelling together. The wrong

kind of close, unlike us, in different

worlds. It’s never about distance.

Britta Benson


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