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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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022




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