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Handle With Care
August 15, 2024
most of the times my heart is cascading, tumultous water
rushing rhythmically against my ribcage
but in a rare sunglow-lit moment
you touch the upper corner of my cheek
right below my eye, brushing my mole
and my heart feels as fragile as the fluttering of a dove's wings
as if it might break at any second
like fine porcelein with a distinct
grandmother-ly smell
too easy to slip and shatter
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