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  • Smoking. I stopped. I started again. Sitting on a stoop, hospital parking lot. Twenty-six years, my boyfriend faced death. Toe to toe. Face to face. Sparing. We all do. Few of us know this. He did. At twenty-two, he could feel the gun at his head. A tumor. A tumor that doesn’t go away; smack dab in the brain.

    “Take that,” it said, “Whatcha gonna to do?”

    What would you do? What did he do? He bobbed and weaved. Twenty six years. Bob and weave. Such victory and then pistol whip. Down. A stroke laid him out. He slept all day. He never did this. When he got cold, he shivered helplessly. He never did this.

    Smoking. I stopped. I started again. Hospital parking lot. I look up; I see geese in the sky. Such formation. One leads; the others follow. Without thought. Just the flow of things. The leader falls back another takes its place; again, they follow. My eyes stay with them. Their sky dance. They fly further away. The rhythm remains the same. And then, they are not here; They are somewhere else. Where? Another sky? Appearing to another face?

    Smashed the ember. I stand up. My love is dying. Where do we go next?
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