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Dec 2010
I move too fast and forget to tell you where to be.
The door we are supposed to meet at is old,
wood peels orange and rust dulls the shine of hinges,
try to flake it off with vague fingers,
they slip away into acrid clouds.
This house knows our bodies, we coloured the walls
and washed, re-washed the plates.
You don't remember where it is.
Written by
Claire Bircher
526
 
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