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Traces of Summer MAG
Before the official days of summer began
I went back to the place where you carved our names into a dead log with your old pocket knife
The log that lay just beside the water's edge overlooking a grassy hill
I ran my fingers over the rigid bark and the jagged letters of your name
I remember the days felt so long then, and we were unstoppable
This would be the first of many summers apart
And I find myself questioning whether things will ever be the same, again
I stand here for several minutes, eyes closed, as if trying to hear your voice through the carving
But all I can hear is the passing of the gurgling river as it continues on its course down the mountain
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