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we first kissed in the chapel of a bookshop where we'd never met, only dreamed. sometimes things you aren't sure you've actually seen show up on old films you develop a year after you sober up. sometimes we dream of connections and the strange relief of losing everything— then awaken to search for the same. sometimes i can't put my finger on it, still i know it's there: a tiny spark that might dissolve like a dream, or become brushstrokes on an unfinished canvas. we first met in another bookshop. i don't remember the words we said then, only what i dreamed.