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  • All this self doubt. Who is it that makes us what we are?

    A god of small making.

    I didn’t bless you any more than anyone else. The reverse of your eyes. Is that what you saw?

    I’ve sent messages from beyond the grave before. Small deaths of our own making and so we love them all the more.

    My heart break is not your heart break. Your heart break is not my heart break.

    What is the sound of a heart beating but that of the cicada ?

    The bones of us, breathing in and breathing out.

    You loved my sadness is what I saw. But couldn’t see the pins I wore. Each winged thing will tell you this.

    There is a sound to the Summer. When it’s gone as it surely goes, we wear the Autumn with a little pride. Wrapped around our knowledge.
    Nothing can be taken from us.

    Flying by was the Summers kiss.

    Breathe out. And let it go.
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