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  • There is something
    surreal
    about seeing someone for the first time in two years
    after a heartfelt correspondence through long, handwritten letters.

    It is magical to
    run through a fountain in Boston
    hair dripping wild and jeans soaked through
    and to wander the streets, barefoot and drenched.

    I am content to
    lay on the asphalt and watch the moon on the ocean
    and the stars in the 4AM sky
    and the steady swing of the lighthouse beam.

    It is right to
    press lightly into you just to know you are there,
    to drink mint tea with lavender and honey,
    to wander and rifle through old books and records and talk face-to-face.
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