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Poetry


Letting Go

Gemma Meek

She waits in the cold afternoon light,
holding a dead cigarette and quietly
practicing words like a mantra.

There were paradises waiting,
if only she could make him see.
Itís difficult to love you, he said.

This wasnít how she dreamt it.
She falters under an unblinking sky,
stares at the cracks in the pavement.

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