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Not a stranger. Not at heart.   We play at constant recognition, oh, I remember you. Yes.   Every new exchange is filed firmly under You are an excellent person to know. You keep proving it. I guess we are each breaking through levels of temporary strangeness to find an old friend. We do it quickly, so it will be all right when you kiss me on my wrist. It is.

I have not learned much about your hands except that they are warm and kind. You reach out to save people from traffic. You press my hand against your collarbone and we don’t talk.

Your face's default is not a frown; expressionless, you look as if you are waiting for the next reason to smile. You smell good. You smell like optimism. Your hands, folded, supporting your chin, are priceless, something I want to cut out of a photograph, something I would like to keep.

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