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Indentations This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By AudreyM, Delaware, OH

There are worse things
to hope for than some
lingering touch.
In sleep, cryptically vague
are hazed disillusions
of fingertips against
glass plates,
against the malleable skin
of our humanness.

A suffering long endured,
as we are all akin to the same
nature, not trees falling in
silent forests – we are not
the noisy river tributaries
barreling down mountainsides.
But these meek and less wise
fleshy creatures with only two eyes
and finite time to see all,
the infinitesimal knowledge
that we are useless,
and only desirous of
what destroys us.

The sea does not long for
oil spills, as the wheat does
not pray for locusts' plagues.

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