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Little Red


Sometimes, I am Little Red, and sometimes I am the Wolf.

Sometimes, I cross the line, and sometimes I am the line.

Sometimes, I can’t tell if I love the way I miss you, or miss the way I love you.

Sometimes, I find sea glass, and imagine using it as a shattering currency.

Imagine having every possible force of nature working against you, and still making it out alive.

Being with you feels like that.

It feels like being the last person to make it through the light as it turns red behind you.

It feels like walking through the sliding glass door that opens in time with the music.

It feels like watching the sun fracture a wall of lilac storm clouds.

I don’t remember much about what happened after 2 a.m. but I do remember lying still in your arms, realizing it was never going to be enough.

I remember the way you would say my name like it was a joyful praise of sunlight.

I remember clinging tightly to rose quartz and amethyst to lure in some form of magic certainty.

The spell has been broken, the sun has returned from it’s two week vacation, and I have been liberated from woven strings of unanswered questions.

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