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Here is what I told her -
The morning you missed looked like this:

Brown fields, made gradually honey yellow
windows in houses, bright red
sending the light into backyards
Hills in the distance, robin's egg blue
small ponds of clouds in valleys,
and ice frosting on the corners of my windshield
fading as the sun gets around to it.

Here is what she told me-
The morning you missed was like this:

The texture of my old sweater, warm and familiar
The pockets of your pants, as we hugged goodbye
starting to fray; to give
The complaints of the birds on the windowsill
telling me you have disregarded the feeder, again
House sounds-creaks and pops as the sun warms its edges
Leftover smells-the coffee in the kitchen (extra grounds?)
your aftershave in the bathroom sink
like a note you left for me that says:
maybe later?
The answer is


We don't see the same things, but we speak the same language.

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