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What I meant the other day when I couldn’t say I love you was: I’m scared of getting hurt and it’s humbling to be so original.
The unstrung joy I feel hearing you start high school with Gasolina: let’s start there. I had to race home to tell you. Like the unspooling sunflower that reached up up up in the city heat for months, edging blossom, defying wind gravity impatience, the heat and sweat and ass implicit in Daddy Yankee came forth…
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137 Second Ave
1. I don’t pay attention to the roads but I still know the way. It is my own map I follow: leave Thursday evening, as the sun sets. Pack the car quickly, bring no snacks, no coffee. Sit in the front seat and watch the whole world slide beneath me, listen for the click-click, click-click…