We walk in sand
secure that the tide
will wash away our epigraph
of inconsistency,
The little faux pas

the stumbles
that haunt us
the touch
that strays
too close to the soul

We trace our love letters
on drifting leaves
place them in bottles
that get lost in the sea
of ambiguity

We avoid the garden path
for the undergrowth
dark and dense
We leave
no footprints

Still,
there are scars.

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