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Literature Text
They came with your stolen identity clutched beneath palms that didn't know how to caress. And for a while they had me fooled and I believed they were you and this was it.
Part of me stayed hopeful - between my heart and my soul lay a piece that instinctively knew this was not enough. When I met you I decided I had found something in a person that no Anatomist could ever draw. Truth lay between us as a beautiful vista and my only regret was that I didn't speak it sooner.
And it hasn't escaped me, the Irony of our meeting. That we should skip the season of growth and rebirth, the months of heat and green fields, to land firmly in the midst of something more potent and real.
Whilst the trees shed their summer coatings and the world began its Autumnal decay. I could think of nothing more than the vibrant orange of October coupled with the touch of your hand and the press of your lips, as we sealed the day. And within seconds it became perfectly natural for me to take an imprint of your smile and for you to punctuate my sentences with a gentle kiss.
Literature
Empty Box
I left a box on your porch the night before I broke up with you. It was cardboard, medium-sized, bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a refrigerator. There weren't any words or anything on it. It was blank. And empty.
There was a message on the answering machine when I got home from work the next day, and I knew it was from you but couldn't stand the blinking red light anymore.
"Why?"
If you had looked, which I'm sure you hadn't, you would have seen that the corners were ba
Literature
Leaves and Leaving
Turning leaves remind me that some people change along with the seasons.
Leaf. Leaves. Leaving.
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Hush. If you listen real close, you can hear leaves laughing as they let go of the twigs that adore them. They flutter quietly to the ground, their graceful suicides silent to everyone except their beloved branches.
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Look, the world is orange and jagged and rusted. It is decadence and leaves and leaving. It is home, it is heaven, and it is hell.
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One by one, the trees ignite themselves and we watch their soundless self-destruction unfold. Whole forests seem to go up in flames without smoke. Sometimes we take pictures.
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We are only lef
Literature
today.
i am colouring in a wrinkled-up torn paper sketchbook on my lap, pencil clinking with the sound of windchimes between my frail fingertips as drawing thoughts soar through my summer-fixed mind. sunlight peeks through my tilted pencil and creates a rough black line edged on the side. i stop drawing for a moment, fill my lungs with blissful fresh air, and start again, refreshed with new thoughts of big-eyed children running in cascading meadows with their long hair dragging behind them like a veil intermingling with the grass below.
i am breathing the sea-sweet air through burning-warm nostrils with my feet squishing through the mutable tan-gra
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