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a poem by Andrea Nawrocki

Sometimes I think of you
and when I do, you bring
the northern lights
and something a little bit like heaven.
And I think maybe you’re resting
in the Pacific Northwest,
where you count trees
as if you’re numbering stars among the navy.
Or maybe you’re elsewhere,
standing late for the train.
And you don’t know it yet,
but I love you . . .
Wherever it is that you run,
wherever it is that you see the sun
as you watch the night fade to ceilings.

I love you,
ardently so.

And I’ll be here among the fog
when you catch the train,
and maybe when you see me,
you’ll remember the stars
and show me the trees.
Maybe, just maybe—

when you reach me.

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