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Well, this is something.

A quick glimpse over the ridge,

into the drink.

The slivered light passing through

the moving reeds.

The air it smells like salt

and boat gasoline.

The air feeling

refrigerated

moves quick across the skin.

This is something,

I forgot to tell you when you were with me.

A loneliness that grows because I feed it.

We had our language

and no one else alive can read it.