Sophia McCurdy
The lines through my heart are blue
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My old red bike standing in front of the river. Seeing people swimming though the handle bars. Navy sheets and crisp white pillows. A Renaissance painting on an old city wall. Strings of clear blue beads hiding the people in my kitchen.
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Checkered tiles and an inch of water. A shopfront in Lyon. All my bras hanging out a drawer, perfume sitting on top, baby blue walls. Love and light.
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Three pretty martinis on a glass table. A great view of the Midwest countryside, all vans and birds and power lines. Your friend’s head disappearing under the water, joyful splashing. A bowl of strawberries lying on a blue blanket, watermelon in slices. My hair blowing away with the wind.
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Mom’s rosary hanging from the center mirror, clinking with every passing mile. Summertime and haircuts and people who always leave. Sobbing while watching yourself in the mirror.
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A soft, gentle bed that you will never get out of. A book with a well-broken spine next to a glass of cognac. Piles of piles of white and blue china, all swirls and flowers. Everybody in the whole world hanging their laundry on the same street.
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Walking across the sand towards the deep dark part of the ocean. A sale on paperbacks that draws in a student of philosophy. A radio on a dark blue chair.
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Cooking breakfast with your best friend. A denim bag, a crowded street. Shower-slick walls and wet towels. Mosaic floors in star-burst patterns. A phone, sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes. A drive-in movie that's showing two people kiss. A starry ceiling, the darkest blues. Everything is always changing.
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