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It was a warm morning
that smelled of mildew
interspersed with the
fragrance of flowers, few

You felt familiar
fingers intertwined
That steady pulse,
your hand in mine

The sunlight reflected
in those pools of brown
Our shallow breathing;
the only sound

Those mornings now
haunt me, teasingly
As I mull over the futility
of something, that could never be

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