We don’t run our hands
along the spines of books
or smell fresh ink on pages.
We slide fingertips over skin
searching, longing.

We don’t run our hands
along the spines of books
or smell fresh ink on pages.
We slide fingertips over skin
searching, longing.
I listen to the hum of crickets, watch the hazy flicker of fireflies in a distant cornfield.
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