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march hares

this time of year, here, reminds me of how very much I miss autumn, and

I pore over your words, starved for visions and starved for beauty, and

there is always one message in my spam queue right now, and

it’s so quiet, sans whispers, and

it’s so quiet, sans dreams—

don’t let me slip through my fingers again

somewhere, we must be running under lavender skies, through red and gold foxtrails of leaves

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