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  • For weeks after the end, I existed solely on tangerines and wine. Friends would come over and find patterns of those orange peels scattered about my house in perfect metaphor to my similar scattering. There--on the bathroom sink, my nightstand, the countertops and floors.

    With cosmic timing, a ghost from journals past came through town, but only for one night. He kissed my tear-stained cheeks. I used his poetry as medicine, but he didn't mind. Late in the night, we sat at my kitchen table in our underwear. Still craving tangerines, I succumbed. I realized, then, the contrast of peeling open vs. peeling apart.
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