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These hands that shake

And clench and scrape at skin,

Will be held still,

Or wide in greeting.

And this face that people see,

Is not the face that really

Buries itself in the coarse material

Of the cold, wet, pillow.

But will be raised and smiling,

Eyes sparkling with humour,

Not that which falls

Far behind them.

When this mouth opens,

Less literal words

Will march out, sure footed

And bold.

Because right now... I cannot, cannot

Move, or breathe, or think without

Hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling

you sink from my vision.

So I will wait.

Until I can dryly smile

As the rain falls inside

not out, hoping that it will

Eventually dampen this...


(picture from sketchbook of john burgerman)

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