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What is mine, no longer, nor yours truly, nor one of us of each other.
With my torn taffeta in your hands saying goodbye forever, a colorful parachute behind you. Myself, traversing to catch the final shreds.
It's not fair to fall like this, but who's complaining on a day where birds fly into sunlit windows feeling themselves infallible in flight.
A day like today, where I sit plotting the hidden trajectories of sharp, invisible objects.
MARINA GIPPS
| Submitted Date |
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Saturday, April 28, 2007 |
| Submitted Date |
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Saturday, February 19, 2011 |
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