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Intimacy
by Benjamin Woodard Your dad decided to unwind with close friends after the service, which left you and I to transport the ashes of your mom—boxed
by Benjamin Woodard Your dad decided to unwind with close friends after the service, which left you and I to transport the ashes of your mom—boxed
Photo by Unsplash+ by Kathryn Silver-Hajo You must’ve stretched, yawned, rolled over on your mat before grasping the cord, toppling the lamp onto your hand, bulb
by Kip Knott My reflection holds a mirror up to me so I may see myself for myself. He looks for any sign of recognition
Photo: Getty Images by Karen Crawford Maybe you were flying, flying when we met. I was looking up at an ocean of sky and there
Photo by Alison Marras on Unsplash by Christine H. Chen Everyday finds me and Mrs. Yang rushing to get out of bed in the dark to prepare porridge
Photo by SpaceX on Unsplash by Christine H. Chen What I do is spray Windex, wipe the round glass window, the door handle, the drum, rake layers of gray cotton
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash by Christine H. Chen Because she used to have a researcher job where the managers always questioned her: why did you run this chemical
Photo by Jacek Dylag on Unsplash by Anne Anthony In the nearby booth, a man and a woman sitting opposite each other sign in rapid gestures, spelling out
Photo by Anna Dziubinska on Unsplash by Sean Ennis My friend Shadow and I were still drunk from lunch at the Bramble Mall. We rode the glass elevator
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash CW: Death and Grief by Sumitra Singam Ma squeezes Indian limes, more yellow than green, their spongy give belying their tart taste,
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