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by Nat Wilk

The holy yellow of death;  

suffocating warmth,  

the overwhelming radiance  

of being too close to the sun,  

of warm feet on blistering sand,  

of being kissed for the first time. 


I once knew…  

a yellow like that. 


A summer of lemons  

where we squeezed lemonade  

into glass Mason jars,  

and the bumblebees buzzed  

under dim golden string lights  

that illuminated the backyard. 


And I think,  

I’ve never known a smothering yellow  

quite like this  


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