Every memory mends itself into this hemline.
Each thread of red silk pulled in the direction that best holds.
Underneath the clean line there is a mess--
made of all the criss-crossing stitches of untold stories.
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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 ...