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Bodies spilling outward in full icarian descent, our spirits stare back through the windows of paper airplanes. Outside, looking in; inside, we're never to see each other again. Arcing through the slow blooming debris, flowers spring from my palms. I close my eyes and call it love, clutching you even tighter; falling the way I should have years ago. Together we fall, together we return to the soil as we did when we first met.
In the soil below us, flowers still spring from my palms.
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