The old photographs,
edges curled like dried autumn leaves,
offer only glimpses.
A younger laugh, unheard now,
a sun long set on that specific day.
I try to piece it together,
the scent of the salt air then,
the weight of a hand in mine.
But the details slip,
like sand through open fingers.
There are moments, sharp and sudden,
a song on the radio, a...
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