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  • This was not taken by you. It was not taken with you. It was not taken near you, or with you in mind. It was taken, not before I knew you, but before I ever knew what you felt like. When I found this moment, I did not know the color of your eyes.

    Or that they matched mine. Or that my mother would tell me that you were a white light, the sort of intuition she had never divulged to me before. Or that you would one day trek your way up my stairs in the dark because I was laying in bed with white noise waves playing and an open window, shivering. At midnight. You came to lay with me at midnight. You turned off the waves and let me breathe into you instead.

    This was before you found some god in me, or I in you. Before anyone ever told us that something beautiful comes from looking out bus windows. Before anyone told us what we already knew.

    This is a sunset just outside Sorrento, Campania in February. It has nothing at all to do with you.
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