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I’m starting to see how the other 

isn’t me. And even more to understand 

how the other keeps excesses 

of myself. 

My effort to go beyond the image 

traverses what escapes me when

printing your light.

Residue of voices I still listen

despite it being left somewhere 

outside the framed photo.

From this noise, echo of words

and pauses that repeat ad infinitum.

Amidst hate and love, I am 

what I managed to do 

with my missed encounters 

and asymmetric waves.

A struggle to stay still 

feeling the gaze