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The sky tonight dazzled me. Drunk on the bombazine blackness of forever, I turned up the woolen collar of my coat and fastened its frog-closures snug around my throat. The leather around my fingers made me clumsy, but my fumbled buttoning was nothing under those stars.

In the silence of the midnight park, I watched the constellations dance in the cloudless night. I felt my own significance fall away, felt my soul dissipate like spent perfume into the clarity, felt my fading self join the stellar reel.

When the cold snap of footfall on the bridge drew me back into my stinging cheeks and frosted lashes, it seemed only natural that you should be there, hunched into your leather jacket and scarf, watch cap down over your dark hair, clever hands buried in your pockets.

I knew without speaking that your gloves lay forgotten on the Queen Anne table in the front hall of your house. You never remember to wear your gloves.

I saw you take in my quarter-moon profile, saw you drink in the curl of my hair, dark to mirror your own, saw your lips smile before you remembered to forget me.

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