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In 100, by Wyatt on November 18, 2019 at 8:22 am

My mind cannot fathom you.

You’re not your mischievous eyes.

You’re not your reckless laugh.

You’re not the crease between your butt and thigh.

You’re not your letters, meticulously stashed from meteors that shot into and out of your life, brief sparks of connective love.

You’re not your scent.

But I can’t hold all of you from here.

I can only hold your bits. One at a time.

I pick each up and treasure it.

Then I put it down before grasping another.

When I hold you in person, forgive me for collapsing under your magnitude.

Your wholeness is blinding.

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