We sat where the orchard meets the dusk,
Legs folded like unopened letters.
She laughed, and the wind—
Traitorous — carried it straight through me.
There was dirt beneath our nails,
Scratched from some old pretending,
And sap on our skin like guilt.
We called it a game, that closeness,
Two girls learning the language
Of not touching.
She wore her hair long, like mine—
A...
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