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Ursa Minor MAG
I'm like the little dipper:
you can't always see me,
but I am always there.”
He exhales soft gray clouds;
beneath his cologne
is the faint scent of the last cigarette
he smoked.
I see constellations when
he holds me – his arms consume
me whole.
His voice, a comet brushing my ear:
“You know where to find me.”
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