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we were infinite

one old photograph, pressed between the pages of a book that’s falling apart

shows two hands innocently edging towards each other.

this aching tenderness, not yet healed, makes them move hesitantly

and the girl still hates what she sees in the mirror

and the boy still lives in the silence of a shattered glass house,

but sorrow-filled hearts are lifted

and the past is dead and buried.

she whispers as the summer closes, “don’t forget me”

so --

he doesn’t, and in neat block handwriting, he scribbles across the back --

“in this moment, we were infinite”

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