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Moon, blow your light
my way, but don't cut my time

Let me dream just a little longer
while my eyelids shine
in the dark starlight

Let the ceremony end slow
back in my old home,
not in a cold forest near the sea

I want to see again
those three rivers that flow
together and listen to a woman
singing to a child
in her mild mannered way

But in spite of the night
and my wishes
something keeps creeping
past me in my sleep
like numbers of smoke

It was you, dark woman,
walking across the room bare
footed turning on the air conditioner
in the winter, a pair of scissors
in the folds of your robe.
It hadn’t occurred to Laura that love might not be how everyone described it to be.
That love won’t always be the type to sweep you off your feet.
Taking you on a whirlwind of confusing emotions and nausea.
That love might be as quiet as gentle summer winds, or winter suns.
Warm on your back and distant rays shining light on a dark path.
That love won’t be kisses, stolen in the dark or in the public eye for all to see.
That love is a small smile barely seen.
An arch of a brow fighting against the urge to laugh.
No, it hadn’t occurred to Laura that love can be a dull throb behind breast bone.
Or a sweep of hunger in your belly.
That love isn’t fireworks and the loss of breath.
But a steady rub of something warm against your skin.
A smiley face in a text.
A hum of agreement at the grocery store.
Love is not the shine in one’s eyes.
Or the curve of a smile.
Love is the scrawl of a pen leaving messy tracks of jacked up English.
Love is a sad day hidden under covers sleeping all morning.
Love is the two sugars in their coffee or the two spoonsful of honey in their tea.
Laura realized that love is pain and joy all at once.
That love Is broken dishes on the kitchen floor.
With your arms wrapped around the broken thing and never letting go.
Love is standing by the one you love as they tear themselves to shreds.
Trying to tear out the demons in their heads.
Love is sitting still at the fingers gripping feather light against your wrist.
Love is sharing food without being asked.
It is sitting in the shower fully clothed under sprays of hot water.
It is standing in the middle of a concert swaying back and forth.
Love is quiet and dull. Painful and blissful.
Love is giving the meds needed to function.
Love is humming their favorite song.
Love is understanding.
Love is not questioning.
Love is being strong.
Love is smiling when they pull you into a dance.
Love is devouring the food they worked so ******* making.
Love is encouraging the purchase of prints and trinkets from their favorite artist at a con.
Love is dressing up for a midnight screening.
Love is ignoring each other in favor of the books in your laps.
Love is watching a movie at the same time in two different rooms.
Love is when Harry met Sally.
Love is Hachiko. Faithful until the end.
Love is letting go. If you have to.
Love is sacrifice and giving.
Laura understood that Love is never ending yet forever ending.
I might be in love. (it's also been a while since I last wrote anything.)
Nights get heavy.
When every thought becomes a curse.
Sleep is waylaid.
When every subtle nuance you begin to nurse.

Hours grow long.
Rest becomes a dream.
Seconds start to undo...
Every stitch in every seam.

Shadows come to play,
as their dance warps your grasp.
Demons come to say...
That you’re welcomed in their sinister clasp.
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