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  • when i see us in that photograph
    i think of all that has vanished
    the pink house with the violinist
    upstairs practicing on Sunday
    those long afternoons of bitter coffee
    the sound of the street car
    at night it would rattle us to sleep
    the sound of the creaky floors
    when you would get up early
    for your morning walk
    when you would listen to the birds
    your collection of feathers
    blue jays and horned owls
    what luxury to know
    soon you would return
    slip inside the covers
    nuzzle me awake
    slip into my dreams
    your lips and dangling
    tongue against my ears
    my throat nibbling
    slowly you slipped
    inside of me
    slowly you slipped
    away from me
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