these matters of love have no place here. like a page, i am empty, and there are no words to write. how often does emptiness on a page feel like the tide? in my mind, i am with the ocean. the sun is immediate and always setting, all along the pink morning mist. i go to the border, where sediments remain of the turquoise shells, abandoned suitcase on the shore. i seem to have left myself there.
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