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high tide someday I will stop writing about you as my first true love and instead realize you were the love that emptied me iridescent and hollow like a conch shell so that when you spoke to me you heard only the sea in response

aubade sunlight makes a pattern of warmth on your cheeks your sleepy hands reaching for me in muscle memories dark curls spilling over your eyes, mouth puckered in a dream. soon the smell of coffee, the flesh of fresh citrus, the idea of a mundane limitlessness, marveling at how could I ever have become so content?


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