all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.
how is it thathe's alwaysin my thoughts. even when i am not thinking.
i am eithera stormor a drought.in-betweenshave neverbeen my thing.
all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.
i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.
kisses... areand always will be the only language that I will have ever truly known.
how can i everbreathe normally againafter having been cradledby the kind of sorrowso silent, that it nourishesafter having been sweptby the kind of joyso absolute, that it wounds.
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