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Something Lost
you press her fingers to
your mouth. the same way you
did in Boston. in Memphis. in
New York. that was when she told
you to pack it up. “Go home” she
said. but you stayed with her.
half asleep in a cheap rocking
chair, back sore. with an afghan
and a cup of coffee.
but she knew you then.
and the grooves
in her hands were intimate.
now those familiar trails
have faded. and the
flight home
won’t be for two.
Cameron Dawson
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