I wake with a name standing
swiftly on my tongue.
You are a memory:
that restless, sapphire summer under
the willow tree. I did not know
you then, but I knew you always,
and the train crawling up the mountain
and the stars, which birthed cerulean.
It is not your name,
on my tongue, though it does taste
familiar. Perhaps, because it is
blue, like your voice.
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