Photo by Charles Egill Hirt

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Soft moss and sharp lava

I dig my fingers into the soft moss.
The softness comes to an end.
I cut my fingers on the sharp lava
the blood drops have the same shape
as my long dried tears.

I dig further into the moss
looking for the remains of you
hoping that one day
I might find your bones
so that I may touch
your non-existence.