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Your Past Isn’t Always Best Left Behind

I’ve never been a smoker, but it reminds me of his fingers when they touched my face, the way my hair absorbed the ambient nicotine of Brooklyn rooftops and stayed with me for days. It’s a physical conduit to the things I no longer have, but it reminds me that they were real.

In Memory of Memory

It was late at night and nobody was printing pictures. She turned on the self-service machine and waited as it hummed awake. Minutes passed.

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