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i noticed the sliver of a moon on my drive home tonight—low and crisp in the clear night sky.
many years ago, i knew a guy who described this waxing moon as a thin and yellowed fingernail clipping.
i forgot many things about this boy. but i remembered this.
i thought it was brilliant. and that he was brilliant. and so poetic. to describe something so lovely and traditionally romantic, so perfectly—by comparing it to something so unlovely and unromantic.
i always wished i’d thought of it myself.
years later, i ran into this boy and told him i remembered. i told him i thought of what he’d said about the moon.
but he said he didn’t remember ever saying that. he said he’d probably stolen it from a book he’d read…