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I cannot stop
dancing with words,
or the running riot
in my head
from thoughts of you.

The dark clouds of your eyes
keep me writing for days.

(I try to capture
like an artist
the missing meanings
that sketch your face
upon my heart)

I cannot see,
nor do I want to,
the end of this road.
This journey is mine,

(I travelled far
to escape that poisonous
island of safety
I am from)

and I arrive
at your door,
bringing you a gift:

this tapestry–

tinted with the dyes
of our past lives;

woven from the golden
threads of minutes
stolen from future days;

fashioned from deep, dark nights
of wondering
where you were.

(and how you
could breathe
without me)


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