You were so new I hadn’t dreamt of you yet.
And so, existing only in reality, you weren’t yet made real.
You were the reflection of a crepe myrtle branch
swaying on a window. But not the branch itself.
There was no branch.
Only its reproduction.
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Narrative is a hundred percent reader-supported. If you love what you’re reading, please make a one-time or monthly tax-deductible donation. Your gift of $60 or more includes a 1-year Backstage Pass with special features and exclusive previews.
