Poetry
A Feather in the Sun
I no longer hear the footsteps of a stranger from up the street out for a morning weekend walk with a growing little gleeful dog;
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I no longer hear the footsteps of a stranger from up the street out for a morning weekend walk with a growing little gleeful dog;
We joke about who will die first but we both know it will likely be you. We hold hands while walking the dog, make her
I remember the feel of his fur, and can almost remember his smell. Standing next to him was amazing. He once stood up with me
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