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June 29, 2019
Someone in line at Starbucks is putting on an American accent that's jarring, distressing, loud in its futility. And it's all too much. I turn to you for comfort. Your chest is a world of earthiness. I bury my head. I tell you: My heart is big, ready, open. I'll leave this country of uncertainty. Doesn't matter much if someone's coming with. There are pockets of time when it hits me like a freight train how the only love that matters is self-love, in all its sensible and generous meaning. I lift my head, realize you were a dream.