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Tuesday, May 15, 2012
On the mumbling trails of the past,
passion has weathered poorly.
This rigor upon first touch:
a loss of tenderness, held too long in the heart.
The birth of intimacy is the rewriting of destiny.
The absence of self in affection, the sacrament.
There is life in the laying of the wreath.
Slow hands wheel the darkness.
Trust, now - the only light that opens
the generous bloom of her body.
Trust - The Only Light That Opens
Take care, keep safe, and stay beautiful,
With love and peace,
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