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She Reads Herself In My Face

I fell in love with her sorrows. We shared a mask that we spoke through, a mail-box for wordless hungers. Passion maimed us, even I shed tears, sensing a Puccini last act approaching. She read herself in my face. I gave her news, long-range forecasts, but she insisted in her desperate belief that I would always be around to mop her up.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Book: Reflection on the Important Things