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Remember

with the slow, rhythmic chink of the needle
the gathering darkness
closing my bubble
around the night of the machine
the flowing, heavy river of fabric
cascading down the leg of the table
my hands guide it along
stitch stitch stitch
my pot of tea on the burner
and a tinkle of music
thinking back
to a time of stolen vanilla extract
from the cupboard
peeking around a corner
before reaching on tiptoe to the top shelf
patting it on my wrists
my neck
in imitation of a real perfume
I hope to be noticed
for I know you like the smell of vanilla





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