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  • My mind is itching. Climbing up the walls of itself.

    I go and make lunch. I shake my head occasionally and say outloud "no, that would be silly."

    There is nothing of you that I don't know. I know where the gaps are and how you fill them. I know what you are afraid of and I know what you cherish.

    Somewhere, somehow, sometime ago you slowly and deliberately planted a seed within me. I can't help but wonder what will come of it now. What you will find when you tend my roots.

    I lick the tip of my finger and try to touch the spot of you that I know I affected, then. And wonder how it grew in your hemisphere, so opposite to mine. I wonder if I will know by the fruit of your voice. Or if you will by mine.

    And if that's all there is. Just, wonder.
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