take me home.
take me back to that burnt-grass studded, sand pitted patch we called a yard that was 9 parts weed and 1 part florida sand and only felt cool because it was 2 degrees cooler than the gutter-lined tar melting streets that burnt the cataracts into my eyes on those july afternoons when the nimbus clouds climbed the shoulders of the world trying to get out Florida like everybody else with a car and a tank of gas.
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