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Snapshots of a love-starved city still stirring from its slumber, documented by a writer rediscovering his own voice.

I held my hand
against my mouth,
and what fought to be felt
through the folds
that stopped up the spaces
betwixt four fingers
and one darker digit
wasn't a statement
or a song,
but something closer
to a creaky prayer
no grease could guide
into stillness.

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