Who could that be?

Who could that be?
Solid and warm to the touch,
as natural as it was,
as familiar as a dream?

Who maintains these heartbeats?
When a message is received,
the flesh that withholds
the clues that can't be told?

Who would that be?
An afternoon fantasy?
A phantom made out of light
sifting through the leaves?

Could that be me?

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