cigarettes
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At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
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A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
Between Bruises & Blooms 