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Love is in the details, the way

you ask me softly on that quiet,

charcoal couch if I need you

to press the web of flesh between

my finger and my thumb to ease

the pounding in my head:

Pressure for pressure.

It’s the way you say

I’ll be okay before I tell you

that I’m not. The way you know

I need to hear the things I don’t

believe. The way you see me

broken and beautiful —

a duality, not

a mutual exclusion. I don’t

know what to make

of us, but

it feels safe here. So I’ll stay

under nebulous terms,

until I burn your open heart.

I don't know why

I cannot hold affection

without tearing

my closest friends apart.

But you see me through

the mist — the hailstones

of my fear. You anchor me,

a lost vessel, on the outskirts

of the pier. So readily enchanted

by what we stand to gain

that no tempest wild

or sad or strange

can make us part again.


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