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Highway
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On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last seventeen years. The radio waxes romantic. Its lullabies fill our eyes with tears. We don't say a word. There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard. And how you've grown my little bird. I'm regretting letting you fly. Six pounds and seven ounces. A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you. Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands



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