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Rolling

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August, and I was brighter than the North Star and happier than the clams in the Atlantic.
When September came, I crawled out of my summer skin and I was whole but oh, I drained all of the sea water out of my hair.
October was in my view and I was new, pale, and wide-eyed. The world had a strange color and I heard words that I thought wouldn’t come.
November weighed heavy but I was home. Two glimmering days were hopeful in 28 over-cast afternoons.
December marched in and I shattered.
January was the glue.
February appeared and the warm socks stayed on my feet, and night time made way for nostalgic dreams and salty pillows.
March was fresh, bizarre, and intimidating. My words were soft-spoken and shaky. But oh, happy days came sparingly.
April was just when I simply floated away.
And for May, I never came back down.



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