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by Zipporah Stankovich


I miss your touch,
the smell of your hair;
even unwashed and coated
with dust from my old records

I miss your words,
almost perfect
and written in codes
I decipher better than you

I miss your laugh,
nervous or hysterical,
pure music to my ears

I miss your hands,
your touch so careful
as if not to scare me
and bring back lost fears

I miss you
I miss me
I miss us

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