Lines In Dust

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dusty-road
You,
never join me
when I cry.
Building piles
on the floor with stuff
you call – clutter
or junk.
Your pointer
finger – gently
draws a line
on dust.

Your head, forward –
leaning to your
right, reading?

If my tears
I shed were blood –
streaming
down my cheeks –
would you rush
to wipe the floor –
or clean
my face?

Nancy Duci Denofio

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