She is. That's it really, she is. She is a part of me then she isn't. Now, she is again, better, fuller. I know who she is to me. I know she's an achy feeling inside, and she reaches for every pair of hands that will pick her and hold her. I can't keep her around for long, though, because she's always grasping, as if she is falling off the edge of something. She is always too far for me to catch, anyway. She'd slap my hand away if I tried. She is poetry.
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