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This is the sensation I force myself to breathe through as I’m speeding down roads in the town where I grew up; suddenly becoming aware of how few stop lights there are here in comparison to other towns. The smell of gardenias and gasoline conjure abtruse, complex scenes of a now unfamiliar boy. Naked, half-lit bodies invulnerable in the frigid Saluda at night; the birthday present dachshund now buried in the side yard; a baked-out car parked in a dense fog; chlorine and fire smoke; bringing my first boyfriend home; people I will never know again; a watermelon smile after months of indifference; the feeling that my existence has never followed a linear form. Keyhole glimpses. I could quietly suspend for the rest of this solitary dream. Cerebral belongings and unshared projections auspiciously floating away.
Underwear dance
