because scrawled letters adorn the green-tape cresting of my arrow

and my hand brushes over the back of my neck, 
wisps of auburn-honey hair 
floating at my nape 

i am faded sunlight-yellow, 
washed out gray 
and faint blue

like i'm small and strange, 
but still two-handed and 

and my elbow stings with bowstrings, 
fingers raw from nocking,
in, out, my breaths coincide with my releases

and i am free

arrow in flight

and suddenly, it's scraping alongside
another metal shaft
and embedding itself
so deep that the fletching brushes the paper target
and the head of it is thudding into wood

and i am nothing
but the rhythmic nock, 
and breathe out, 
pull the bowstring back
to fit your thumb neatly under your chin, 
and release fluidly, 
hand sliding back to your ear

and i may be nothing, 
but that's alright. 

The End

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