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Saturday, April 7, 2012

soft be it

I miss You
the wind
misses warm
golden fields
to rip through
Like the gently sloping
shaded purple gallinule
aches for an avalanche
the hurricane in my belly
the tornado in my head
lust for some island of peace
in which to be contained.

I have missed
To such depths.
Those seven mile deep oceans
appear as shallow as
the pale, salty rim
of a dried tear
flattened against
a dewy cheek –
when I
compare the leagues
to how deeply
one like you
has been
missed by
one like me.

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