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  • This morning I saw your face in the pattern made by the fibres of my towel. Your voice was in the water, stinging my skin with it's small, sharp points. Your eyes, like always, were in the sky - hanging above my head while still managing to look up at me, little half mooned irises.

    It was blue earlier; now it's grey, and weeping. Today the sky told our story.

    Confirmed by the chaos of the wind, which, as I watch behind a closed window, is blowing the last leaf off our stunted little tree.

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