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July
You like cornflower blue houses. And I fall in love so easily, with everything. I don’t know what my face said but it said something, or at least that’s what Clare said. She would sell herself to an empire of rats if it meant that she would be loved and adored forever. There was an exchange, an acceptance of desire. We sat mostly in silence, crumbling over jelly on toast. Overthinking things over, I opened the Arts Week II newspaper to the first page to study it with purpose. Or maybe that’s just how I imagined looking while reeling about the night before. I watched an older lady approach the coffee stand wearing a Celine jacket, and subsequently the barista explained the offerings of a café as if the lady had never visited one before. As if they are not all the same. I passed my judgments and gave up on the paper. We are looking a little differently these days, a little more aged.
People like to keep their wounds, and the gravity of their sad vibrations can pull you down over time. I’m thinking about
how it all felt so serious, so severe. Fields of cotton and I could love you forever until the end of my life. When I got home, I swept the front porch and washed it down with hyssop. No one the wiser.

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from East French Press: Poetry Power Hour, released April 25, 2021

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