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melancholy

I wanted to write “arms” and not “Arm's
because I wanted ownership, but their length
are too far to touch—shoulders,
when you are standing; ship on display—too wide.
My eyes are strained from Looking
or trying not to look—for
ever, a
time we curated, a fight
we made. Peace
is what I wanted but I didn’t sign
my name, so I’m getting
letters by
you, to form a new one. People,
their hearts, never function to the notion: we can love again, but we'll
never be
the same. it’s alright.

Mackenzie Ray Vanacore / IG @donttouchmypizza















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