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Bottle Rockets

Love,

Explosions in the sky in mid-December don’t gleam like bottle rockets on the 4th.
I miss our reflections captured on streets slick with rain, walks to the chicken
spot, our paper bags drenched in greasy water and our cheeks hugging laughter.

Here, tankers don’t make rainbows after they storm.

Bottle Rockets

Love,

Explosions in the sky in mid-December don’t gleam like bottle rockets on the 4th.
I miss our reflections captured on streets slick with rain, walks to the chicken
spot, our paper bags drenched in greasy water and our cheeks hugging laughter.

Here, tankers don’t make rainbows after they storm.

Chelsey Richardson, 34

Renton / Seattle

 
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POET OF THE WEEK

Victoria Rolph

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