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  • Writer's pictureSophia Aguiñaga


The love of my life is gone. Yet, she is not gone.

She surrounds me and fills me, just as she always has. Each step, concrete underneath my feet, impresses her onto the pavement, just it always has. She is the birdsong that flies from my throat when I croon or speak, just as she always has been. Each stroke of my pen, the words that flow from me to the pen to the page, she is the ink which makes them visible, she is that magic messenger which carries them from the infinite space between heavenly bodies to Earth, from unseen to seen. She is the sun which warmly calls my seed to sprout through endless darkness in faith of her face, to reach ever toward it, born to reach to reach toward it, mechanically engineered and destitute to all other operation. She infuses my cells, inspires my blood flow, aches inside my pains and floats inside my pleasures, just as she always has.

She always has. She always has. Even before I knew her, she always has.

The love of my life is gone.

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