Gabe and Brent before the first snorkel 

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The seven of us grasp at the skies with lavender-stained finger tips, heavy with want and uncertainty. Florida—its pervasive warmth and iridescent waters—was ours for some numbered days and we are desperate to know what of this we can keep, what part of the moon’s reflection can be preserved in the silver pail of our memory. When we stake claims I say the sunset, as I am made of the same purple hue, and J takes evenings in our motel room. She cites the way we we shuffle around one another within its blue walls, elbows knocking effortlessly, as if it were always so

First morning coffee

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Air mattresses in the living room and kitchen 

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Making a bloody mary in my kitchen

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Jarod in the sand

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Brent and Jordan

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Citrus

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Overalls 

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Connor and Jordan

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Nap

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Jordan, our tattoo

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Gabe in a tree 

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Over

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The coldest day


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Brent

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Jordan and Brent

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Gabe's back 

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Jordan and Connor in our motel room 

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Aloe


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Getting ready to go out 

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Brent and Jordan in our motel room 

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Me, by Gabe 

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Jordan, on her birthday

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The last sunset 

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