Today I am made of faded paper:
coffee-stained, a bit dusty, ragged along the edges.
I am tired and I am comfortable and I am fragile and it is a slightly
luxurious concept that I have even existed this long.
I must mean something to someone.
Today I am a glass of wine,
pink and cool and intoxicating
frothy and decadent and sensuous.
Today I am home.
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