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CXCVI

November 23, 2013

Of morning suns and venturing around
the waking city in a coat too thin;
of sitting in the dark with voices all
around—and crying when they cried; and when
we laughed, they laughed—of getting lost, not once,
not twice, but never really being sure
of where we were at any given time;
of homemade food and accidental naps;
of staying up too late and waking up
to start again before the crack of dawn
(or so we felt); of all these things, and more,
oh sister mine, our time is made of this:
of love, of loss, of finding where we are
in time, in life, in darkness and in light.

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