A Moment’s Grace 

“Hurt,

But in throaty muffled screams with your head buried in a pillow.

Cry,

Under a shower in the winter, 

salty cold running through your lips down to the tip of your toes. 

Hold on, 

Like petrichor in the summer, 

nostalgia is a drunken liar. 

There’s nothing but regret in the past.”  

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