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Dangerous Compassions

yellow flowers

Our friend’s kale bolted. We sat on the couch in his backyard, talking for hours, eating lunch.  He was wearing his R2-D2 socks. 

“That’s the droid I’m looking for,” Ming said.  We talked about R2-D2’s personality.  His squat loyal snarkiness foiling C3PO and C3PO’s fear.

A hummingbird came to sip nectar and dart away.  We talked about feckless, pulses, matriarchy.  Sufjan Stevens, my darling.  Painting icons, stormtroopers.

Bittersweet, to finally learn where our friend’s house is, right before he leaves and the house is sold.  A place so dear to me I may never go again.  As we drove away, I cried.  Ming sees this happen, but not the person I’m crying about.

I told my good friend last night, sometimes life seems like a fuckton of loss.  I imagine a huge crane, lifting a mega pallet of loss, moving it slowly to another location.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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