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Me, Texas graveyard, circa April '98
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Blue Bedroom
Iswam through your letters yesterday. Opened the shoebox andthe paper felt like dust between my fingers; fell to the carpet, frosting the knotty-fingered fists of dead spiders. The lacy wings of mothbody shellssilent beneath our dresser.Some of the letters smelled new, still like the sweat of your hands and I remember holding them in my nervous hands, afraid that in my trembling I might tear them, that the last apparition of you would dissolve in the moisture of my fingersand come to rest in the dust beneath our dresser.Under the heavy fruit of my tears, the ink bled into the blue-corona suns of o's and a's the fuzzy c's of blue moon slivers.I brush dust off of my crumbling blueshoebox universeandI cant believe you left me.
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