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recently, i want to write letters. envelopes

with no return address, containing no words but

littoral puzzle pieces.

containing pressed flowers and dawn,

starlight and gold gilded paper.

blank postcards, a window to endless fields, the ocean never

meeting a horizon.

preserving something good of the past,

postal packages that feel too aureate to send to

people, real living souls. find the strange

stillness of a device out of time and

mechanised, a reminder, restoration and remembrance of

light amongst the fog; as artists are wont.

i want to send poetry, zephyr plucked from the window

of the study; the cosmos, all its chaotic

anfractuosity sealed

in an artificial vacuum.

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i wonder if you still remember me.

it’s funny how daydreams work: i haven’t seen you

for half our lives, and there isn’t really a face i can put you to.

only this:

you turning, calling my name

me turning, calling your name

both questions

answered with our smile.

it’ll never happen, of course;

i won’t recognize you.

you won’t remember me.

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it’s always strange to meet

someone you haven’t seen in years.

but there’s something magical about

knowing immediately who they are.

and this was a good time, i think:

i figured out how to explore the city without dragging

unwilling souls all over,

i’ve learned to distance myself enough and know

that everyone has their own life to continue,

even on pause. and anyway, i see more now than


then, so i think this went well. maybe i’ll see you again.

i’m not good at keeping touch, who have

i kept as friends after all those years? forgive me;

see you around

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