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THE ARCHIVES: Chapter 25

It Disappeared

I always write in ink.
Pencil rubs off over time.
It smudges, smears,
becomes an incomprehensible mess.
One day, I wrote a song
(in ink)
and believed it was beautiful.
I folded it into the shape
of a plane
and carried it with me to my next class.
As I floated through the sea of students,
my eyes to the ground,
plane heavy with ink crunched in my hand,
someone slammed into me.
By the time I looked up,
the person was gone,
and I had dropped the plane.
It was like it had flown away.

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