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I lost you but found you. Hope. I hope you’re much better. I hope you know who I am. I hope I’ll be a better stranger, lover, daughter, friend. I hope. I hope to meet you where we broke the line, when you loosened your smile, a glass of red wine in your hands. I hope that our hope will be different. More of a tangible kind. Like. I hope to eat some home-cooked food. I hope. Not I hope this medication will work. Not I hope we will forget. Hope I want you as a neat orrery. A contra-empire presiding the world. Hope you take me to strange places. To a bottle half full. To a larder loaded with apples and bread. Hope you no longer have feathers. You’re Simic’s stone. Happy to be a stone. A flower in a store. A trickle of seeds scattered over our head. Hope there’s no cure for you. Hope there is a room for you yet. I want to find you always, around the corner, on the back of the chair, your yellow hat blowing against the morning breeze.