Familiar with the feeling

of floors, and walls,

their endless textures,

of things I’ve run my fingers over,

busying them, grounding myself,

proving somehow that I’m still here.

Textures, sharp and dull and falling away,

crumbling on a microscopic level,

lodging between the lines,

of fingers’ grooves,

permanently part of me,

as real as can be,

within the facade,

within the ghost,

taking residence,

in place of me.

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