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Poem: Pointing Towards the Sun 

"Who dreamed us here?" On the hill, kites flying above without strings. There was a whispered question in your voice, but you weren't sitting behind me, breathing towards my ear as you always have in those moments.


"Who left me here?" A voice returns—from a little boy with long legs. He bends forward with an unfurling fist to show me a dead bee. Quietly, pushing words on wind he says, "It can sting even though it can't fly."


Yes, be careful.


I, too, opened my hand to show him my findings. His eyes grew wide at the sight of my empty palm. "I know what that is—" he said. "What you have is much better than mine. You have a map of loneliness." I nod slowly.


He sits next to me and points to the sun.

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