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Her auburn curls

Remind me of  the colors painters used

I try replicating the angles they turn at

I try to liven her potrait

But I fail.

My plain hands have failed.

We play, and I watch her.

She twirls at angles I can’t imitate

I fail to become her replica

She watches me try and fail

We own different colors

I ache to be her

My mother always says

She is the prettier one.



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