She Reads Herself In My Face
I loved 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.
She read herself in my face.
I gave her long-range forecasts.
She insisted, persisted –
a desperate belief
that I would always be around
to mop up.
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