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Literature Text
We last until November
with a swift gust swirling
us apart. Like the leaves
of the gingko tree. Like
your smooth exhale.
The year turned what was
green and honest into a
yellow pallor I misnamed as
the Golden Age. When we
meet, you facing me, I turn
facing this tree. I catch
the portentous tremor in
the leaf and watch you
spiral, struggling to rip
out a weed by the roots.
with a swift gust swirling
us apart. Like the leaves
of the gingko tree. Like
your smooth exhale.
The year turned what was
green and honest into a
yellow pallor I misnamed as
the Golden Age. When we
meet, you facing me, I turn
facing this tree. I catch
the portentous tremor in
the leaf and watch you
spiral, struggling to rip
out a weed by the roots.
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More work for class. Alternative title suggestions and other critiques?
Comments3
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I don't know anything about writing, and thus will not venture to crit, but I do like it. It's got a very wistful feeling, to me.