Humid city where my hair never dries and the radio is always right. Where you would not come see me no matter how many times I asked, how many rules I broke. Place from where I sent you photos, day after day, hoping. You replied with your own images, many nearly identical. As if we were of one mind. As if I traveled in your footsteps. As if you followed me. Eventually, we saw the same things, but never at the same time. You always saw them first. Not just in Memphis. 


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