I know she’s mine because when she laughs her eyelashes brush against her cheeks. When she is older, her lashes will bend against the lenses of her sunglasses. She will have more wishes then most as fingers from strangers wipe lashes from her face and say, “make a wish and blow”.

She hides me in the best part of her: on the edge of her lashes; on her rosy cheeks; in her laugh.

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