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He is Memory

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Sitting here, now, I
Remember the way he winked
At me, the rogue, and
Slid his ring onto the tip of my
Pale, shaking finger.
I should have trimmed my nails.

He would run a
Mile through the frosted fall grass,
Feet bare, toes numb;
Rosy cheeks and clouded breath, coming
Urgent, short...
Puffs like smoke
From an old
Cigar.

I remember the way his
Eyes danced as he
Brushed the sugar from
My nose - fine white powder
Lurking on his fingertips - and
Strummed for me a sad old song,
The world's oldest song, on his
Guitar.



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