Brooke, you really were the first to ever see me as a writer,
you, calming water, something like arms that wouldn't wipe my feet from
underneath me, if I ever felt enticed to get closer to you, to stand in your
autumn shiver coldness, underneath a bridge hidden away from normal hindsight.
I remember when you first spoke to me, I didn't listen, at
first it sounded like blabbers, but then I heard the words, rustled in the wind,
the glub from the fish The sound of them being gay & present, I heard the
words that you gave me permission to use in the first poem I wrote outside of
the safety of home. You told me I belong here, I took it as you saying I
belonged to you. I visited once after, but I've never forgotten about you since.
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