My friend Hanna died
When she wasn’t supposed to
Halloween, hard to forget
When I turned twenty
She bought me a handle of cinnamon liquor
Then told me the meaning of life gratis
Hanna never looked away
She stared right into the sun
Called the floating orbs left behind beautiful
She died on an Armenian highway
The country opened up
Placed her on its tongue as a dinner mint, devoured
Every year I wonder
If the good die young
Am I really good at all?
E.P. Rains 
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