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Lying in the silence
of the blue dark night,
tucked in the pockets of souls
thumps from cages issue,
The undone heart
is a beautiful thing.

So tell me,
will you let me untie
the little string
that guards you
to reveal the
Immeasurable light
within you.
Mountains rise
and ashes fall.
Towers crumble
and oceans stand,
our will is not
a test of what
we have built,
but who we
in the core of
our souls
know ourselves
to be,
For the mountains are high
There's nothing like
Crying yourself to sleep
For someone else's broken heart.
Joy is in the little moments
The small smiles
The patterns I pick up
It's the way the day
Isn't erased
After our goodbyes
Drops of water collide
with the paper,
a casual rendez-vous
with the ink.

Colors run,
expanding from the
thin lines of my heart,
blurring my intentions.
She sat in a corn field
drawn into herself,
folded into a world of her own making.

He wrote from distant shores,
spoke of places she could only glimpse
through his eyes.

Her eyes followed his cadenced words.
Syllables as robust as any brew,
waking up her hidden senses.

Distance an allusion.
Language a fibrous connection.

The sun that set over them
was and was not the same.

The paper a beating heart,
the ink an invisible sentiment.

Miles travelled in the twinkling
of an eye across the page,
words rich to the taste.

She dug her hands into the earth
and held onto the flavor.
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