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In between the texts there are fires
smoke inhabiting the cave of my throat
memories fall on my face like stray hairs
and I’m laying on your chest
listening to the flutter of a thousand hummingbirds

this is what they call “stupid.”
what they call “too attached”
but baby I am good at emotional knitting
weaving smooches into sweaters
and wearing them for decades

a haunted house welcomes more ghosts
my bloodline is this sundried graveyard
strangers leave lilies at my rusty stone

visit me again.

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