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Holly Blackmore

The pressures of your fingers still call my body home; true, the truest, the house you will never forget; pure white awnings glittering in the peach of dusk; vines groping upwards and encircling the structure in their delicate embrace; a wooden porch, raw, battered but yielding; a spectrum of green alongside the gravel of the path; wind whispering hidden truths into your ears, as you unlatch the gate, approach the front door; moonlight winking off the softened glass; the garden hums with you, is alive with you; this house will stand the test of time, and so shall we.