The world is bending your back. Every night, my Noah, you pick more animals out of your scarf, the heirloom smelling of sea salt and dyed blue from where the sky and sea bled into the fabric. The saved souls are led carefully into your ark. My fingers cramp and ache from reknitting those azure threads under each moon, keeping them tight enough to ensnare paws, to trap creatures in the folds. Those lives that weigh the heaviest are the ones lost in the gossamer waves.
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"Classic"
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