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she was a creek bed
I was a christian juvenile
she had scars I couldn’t touch
she was only right in the south
she was right about so much

i drove to the top
of a parking deck downtown
sat with the heat off
and the wipers on
waiting for the windows to fog
just from me

buildings turned
into
lights
in her eyes

i wrote letters
each new one
ended like an old one

hands feel so sweet
on my chest
thin little birds
that would cradle
around my neck