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I remember the way you ran
your hand diagonally down
my cheek, touching me the way
I would a picture of my mother:
naively, we brush our fingers against
what we miss the most–yes,
you’ve lost me–and unlike
my mother I cannot be contained
within a frame but sometimes
I wish you could be.

Thinking of you is a vice
I cannot kick as easily
as the habit of us; I realized
last night in the way your key
reflected the kitchen light that
you were pitching me
an offer 
that I couldn’t afford
to pass up.

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