By: James Seaborn

you’re a faded photograph,

tucked in the wallet

of a war veteran

just home from deployment

searching the airport crowd. 

you’re a well-loved paperback,

clutched in the hands

of a fourteen-year-old girl

on her way to her first day of high school.


you’re two teenagers,

looking up at the milky way

on a warm june night,

hands clasped together,

confident that they’ll never let go.


you’re perfect,

but only in the little ways,

that one can only realize

after years of use and wear.

in other words,






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