TYPE WRITER

annabelle walks over just long enough for me to know.

pauses framed outside my window,

looking up at the birdhouse through blonde bangs,

a child.

a replica,

a kodee playing with frozen flowers as I pack my room up

for the long drive home.


we've decided they're all types, though, haven't we?

homes and seven-year-old prophets

in the mountains and the skylines

all types of you.

you're here. you're here. you're here.

we're here, you say,

together.

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