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 Feature
I felt like I should write something to remember it by, So I stared at the page for ten minutes before I realized There were no poems beading on the end of my pencil, No words buzzing around my ears, pleading for physicality. The day on which I overflow into seventeen Is an ordinary November day, a day on which I can look at raindrops Without some giddy muse taking me by the hand And leading my through tunnels of metaphor. It's peaceful, being older. Katie Sauvain |
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