Plat du Jour

It might be a piece of shrapnel, or the muted sound of a voice recorder, but I argue for some proof that we once felt this way, that the rocks along this path won’t turn my feet into gravel and brain to weeds. Give me dirty fingerprints, a tear in my dress, avocado stains, a pillow that smells like sun, or a letter, yes, a letter.
Yes, the light is soft here, yes, the coffee tastes like salvation, yes, I work, yes, you work, yes, yes, yes, yes…

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