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There are some tastes I will never
really get out of my mouth like
the flavor of a swingset pole
in late December or
the blood on my lip from the
June afternoon when
you tossed me a baseball and
said to think fast—

you apologized one million times
but kept overestimating me.

Yearbooks have taught me
that I do my remembering in
black-and-white and
your eyes will always be gray to me,
just like the clouds we bursted.

There is beauty in negative space
and your aftertaste is bittersweet—
I dream in color and you will always be
something outside the spectrum.




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