The sun hangs young and round above a Skeleton Man who walks among the busy blackbreathing streets like today moving into yesterday or the coming of tomorrow. A breeze against the cheek and gone, feathers in the fingers, a shadow in taller shadows with the face nobody knows somehow in every family photograph. He's the gray between the frames of perceptible, not someone to talk about if he walks by the window, Skeleton Man doesn't love and never shakes hands. And yet, everyone meets him somewhere, usually forgetting to look where they're going, and he's always first forgotten to make room. Excuse me, he smiles in the morning, with ancient tired pupils twisted tight. If someone saw them they might know his secret, but then he yanks the cord and night falls fat and flat and full of stars.Birth sign: Not entered
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