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Counting the Minutes
Hearing the fuzz of the static between the lines as you laugh nervously: It feels like waking up to a child who has found your acrylic paints, who is brushing hasty strokes of posey on your cheeks -
Like half-heartedly composing your poise on a river rock, holding your center, knowing if you lose your steady, you have to fall,
Fall into something that feels like first breath of air you breathe when you step off a train, knowing yesterday is gone, knowing the person you are now is ready to embark.
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