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My mother asked me why you're all I write about

My mother asked me why you are all I write about.
I told her to imagine she had swallowed the constellations,
and that every star is burning beneath her tongue,
the moon tearing at the fragile skin on the backs of her hands.
I told her to imagine she had wings, and that she could fly anywhere she dreamed of,
but wherever she went;
she carried your weight upon her paper spine.
That’s what I feel, I told her.
And that’s why I wrap my words inside of blankets,
that are drenched in your cologne.
That’s why Ive grown galaxies inside my bones,
ones that you will never see,
ones that you will  never touch.
That is why, I write of you.
Because it hurts.
And I want my words to hurt me,
the way you did.
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