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Walking away from a lace and
fluff sleeping over lakes and
sky and the space between the
carbon, watching
cheeks and sending rain from
coca leaves, she steps backwards
and touches the snow on the picnic
table. She has brown eyes and
less skin in her cheeks for every year
that she finds a moment to see me and when she
looks at the breath my breathing makes, she talks about
heaven and how no one
there believes in god anymore,
but she laughs and looks at my
knees and asks me where I want to
go; do I want to go somewhere real?