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Nobel Shut Chan 

Like something out of poetry:

I sat with the book open on my lap,
eyes snagging on words with too many consonants.
Our picture lay on the right page
Cut off, because we
were taking selfies with a Polaroid.
The snapshot slid
into the pink wastebasket at my feet.

When I picked it up again,
the smell of garbage grew arms
and hugged around my arms
that hugged around your neck.

I placed it back on my book,
but who knows?
Maybe it will slip
and find its way
down again.

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