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Remember how close we sat in Piedmont Park under the magnolia trees? We told ghost stories while the strap of your red bra would fall from your shoulder, and I wanted nothing more than to touch you then, to hook my finger under the strap and return it to its proper place. I felt similarly out of place all weekend, like a weed growing out of the pavement, strangers spilling out from every room, all of them unknowable, but you.
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