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     By Lauren Breen

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You forget that I’ve seen you cry--You tried to hide
your face but I’ve already seen the pulsing you
flooding through you. Your will broke--Your fists
slammed on either side of me, too frustrated with
yourself. The bed trembled and we melted.
The fresh water of me spilled into the salt water of
you and you swallowed me so I savored the salt
that stung my lips, while I could.
For just that moment, I saw your ocean,
moving and swarming with life. Your pelican
scooped down and took a bit of me. Your
artana fish curved through my rock floor until
they found a spot to lay their eggs before
returning to your trenches, and a jellyfish,
is forced to succumb to the currents, picking
discarded pieces of gardena plant as it sways.
“I am a gust of wind,” you told me
when I told you what I saw. “I have no ocean.”

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