Every Conversation
Rehearsing each sunrise,
willing better into
being with you on a
Sunday, without regret.
In truth, nothing ever
proceeds as imagined.
Acceptable, this
existence in mere
fragments of blissful
and none approaching
the freedom of whole.
In every curve
of every word
I feel the pull
of away, and
still farther
while reaching
in vain for
that which
has since
left
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