Write Something Personal

 

On how each season the gingko leaves, their tiny fans 

unfurled, see me aged another year? On how

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if someone calls me beautiful, I think

they’re lying? Or having platonic soulmates

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across the world, and no one in my bed? The 

limp each morning from the injured ankle?

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Perhaps just that at night, the cardinal

calls for its mate past sunset out the window.

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That’ll do, pig.