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Oct 2018
Keats says, "transcendence of the self",
so you become a fox, copper-coated,
bright-eyed. You become the light of a
harvest moon, playful and sweet,
dancing across the forest floor,
you become a lingering scent
on my thrift-store sweater: balsam or
cold brew coffee, wafting
through the bustling cafรฉ. You become soft
Sunday afternoons, forehead kisses and
pretty words whispered over the phone,
the curl of my lip as I drift off
into sleep.
**** i really liked you huh
gracie
Written by
gracie  18/F/Washington, DC
(18/F/Washington, DC)   
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