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After lobbing rocks at stained glass windows of the grown over Masonic temple, we'ld sit on the steps pulling petals, one by one. Sweet violets in spring and stolen daisies from Old Mrs Johnson's garden back by the alley. I do not remember repeating the phrase "he loves me, he loves me not" but rather the petals soft as my lips between my fingers, tugging, resisting, letting go... lost in the long thin grass. scratched papaya by Theresa Rosado |
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