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Every passing day fades
the golden fingers of the sun.
Her whispers are warm
her breath is humid, leaving
knots of nostalgia in my hair
that I dread to untangle.
Her touch looks bleached
by time—it’s getting late.
Atlanta is yawning and
I feel the fall and brace
myself, I know the beauty
will die in every color: tinting
my thoughts, staining my dreams.

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