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Last night in my dreams, I had drawn a tropical storm. Dark, menacing beauty. Gusts of charcoal rendered paper houses ripped and torn.

Then…combing my hair with my fingers. Ribbons of light in a darkened room.

“I have to leave soon.” he said. I already knew. “We could write” he began.

I touched my hands to his lips, “Sssh…” and the blue-grey cotton of his shirt, already feeling him gone.

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Years later. “It was never going to last. We were young.”

“We don’t know that.” he whispered into the phone.

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