The Comb

This proves you've been,
this silver thing,
not my imagining
at all, that hair thinning
and the quick gesture
combing with this I hold
in my hand proves
you real, proves
your time was here
once, not all in the mind
even though the glimpse this
gives of you is like a
glance through a door ajar,
flashy, quick and bright,
yet it proves you were
and it proves my lack
of your hand.

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