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You draw on me, mocking

sobriety, catching me in

ways wooden flakes do

skins—I like you a lot.

You’re the summer’s electric

concussion that I don’t retreat

from and I can’t tell you

why I’m more bothered about

the meantime than I am

with your departure. I know

I’ll soon feel the fall and you will

be leaving with the season

and I guess there’s no need

to prove because I’ve never

had a good reason. We’ll probably

drift along as if we’d never

even met.

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