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I stood where the airport spit out beautiful people. In New York, there are only beautiful people and also, today, me.

I stood waiting on the corner where he’d said wait, wondering if coming was best, if any of my daydreams would be burst apart or fashioned together when he drew open the door of a yellow cab. A lip, mine, flushed red from nervous nibbles. A nail, right thumb, pulled clean to the pink bed in fidgets. It’d been two years.

He wore headphones the same around his neck. Still the straps of the old backpack showing. My love.

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