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Indian-summer sky, bruised and threatening,
a dawn that might forgive, or finish us.
A ship hangs like an accusation on the swell;
the sea applauds with merciless hands.
Two lovers, neither holding nor released,
their fingers mapping a geography of despair.
Bittersweet shatters into something sharper: “je ne sais quoi.”
Eternal tides learn our names and then forget them.
Is the call a promise, or a sentence in slow motion?
Rejoice, a primal urge’s unchained.
The waiting's over.
The world tilts toward its mouth.
Eternity is near.
For us?
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