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“There’s still sand in my shoes from august. the kind that clings, stubborn and golden like you did. Love was loud then. It dripped down our backs like sweat, sweet and impossible to hold. We kissed like we were trying to memorize the shape of goodbye before it even arrived. And still I’d follow the hum of locusts, the scent of sun-warmed citrus, every blistered street and blooming ache if it meant one more evening where your name didn’t taste like leaving.” — Maimoona Abidi
There’s still sand in my shoes from august.
the kind that clings, stubborn and golden
like you did.
Love was loud then.
It dripped down our backs like sweat,
sweet and impossible to hold.
We kissed like we were trying to memorize the shape of
goodbye
before it even arrived.
And still
I’d follow the hum of locusts, the scent of sun-warmed citrus,
every blistered street and blooming ache
if it meant one more evening where your name
didn’t taste like leaving.