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July 16, 2005

Michele: Loved

I run my finger along the dust on your desk. I hold back the urge to scrawl my name in your dirt. The dust clings to my pinky and I wipe it on your shirt, the one you were wearing the last time I saw you. It hangs on the bedpost like a reminder, a ghost of you with loose arms and wrinkles and a fading marker stain on the right sleeve.

It’s starting to snow now, light puffs of white slapping against the window. Headlights peer through the window and I tumble from your bed, out the back door.

[Book: Solipsist, by Henry Rollins]

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