The passionate words I hear from mouths that are not my own
hit my ears differently.
Instead of a cold crack of a bat hitting a ball out to center field, it feels warmer,
like a pitch perfectly landing in a huge catcher's mit.
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Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring...
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"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like ...