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she lives here, he lives all the way over here, see?

see, they're both homeless, immigrants both, both in love.

yet if they stretch their arms & fingers and fingernails far enough

they'd still never touch.

they can hear each other,

not too well, staticky, like what one may hear in the caesuras of a concerto, but it's all they've got, really.

and they tell each other things, like, listen!

"I had my first peach today and"

"Are you smoking less" &

"I wish I could smell between your legs"

(they're intimate, yknow, they even send each other nudies)

he found her a nickname, but never any interest in the ones she found for him.

she found his sanity, but never the

patience to believe that he too has found hers. they don't even speak the same language, she's romanian, he's vietnamese.

pardon, it's the other way around.

but yeah, they get each other gesturally,

like in a choreographed hyperforeignism

even though they've never seen each other, or

so it seems now that they're so far apart.

he drew her portrait(inexpertly) in his cafe crema(he's no barista)

& she knitted him a mohair version of him, well, an unfaithful helix of sorts that begged to resemble him(from afar).

she wrote him this poem, he wrote her a transatlantic letter that bounced back.

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