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Tell me you remember
the threadbare hem of a dirty blanket.
the throttled wonder of a broken guitar.
You don't.

You remind me
of the moth-eaten sweater in the dark attic,
of the crackle of a chipped record.
Stop.

I've memorized the view
from the window of a childhood home,
and the clatter of rain on its roof.
Have you?

But I've forgotten so much.
The sound of footsteps behind a door,
the scratch of knit wool clothing,
your voice.

The colour of the sky,
in that moment when you touched my face,
and whispered, all out of breath,
has left me.





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