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Up here with Crescent Moon I think of you. The plane forges on west where you are, but it cannot chase down the setting sun. Its oranges and pinks are poured out into the sky and I drink them, in sadness and in awe, knowing they will soon be gone. The clouds hang with their puffed up hills and valleys like the bumps of a comforter on the floor after making love. Up here with Crescent Moon I think of you.
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