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I Could Be a Flute

I could be a flute, I could. Whisper and hum. Float away on my own lightness. Words trickling from my lips and climbing upwards on high notes. Music that makes you think of early mornings and little creeks. 

But I’d rather be a trumpet. Golden and loud and too sharp for some. I would blare the notes of crowded rooms and spilled cocktails. The songs of blistered feet and sweaty upper lips, lips staining glasses and painting cheeks.  


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