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Bruises may heal; their color may fade; but their imprints remain.
I have loved but once, yet the entirety of my heart appears marked.
How queer it is to still feel broken...
Taped, glued, but not wholly the same..
Some times are more bearing than others,
whereupon I can imagine him appearring before me:
somehow, some way, that same smile half-raised.
He gets a chance to ponder my youth, my actions,
my ripened disposition.
I purport to tell him "it's alright" --
no need to worry of the circumstances, of how to behave. It's just me;
I'll never compromise his calm.
...It is still amazing for me- what love is, at least to my perception.  
Perhaps I hope never to see him again for this not to change...
I can imagine his eyes - they speak everything to me.
I am sure that this person in front of me feels a richness beyond my noted comprehension;
yet he does not know how to express it.
That's what makes it intriguing.
But I know it -- I can feel it from him; I can feel it in his silence.
So, a girl wants so much what she cannot's not a first. What am I to do?...
Who cares that you are not poetically apt?
Your hands, your fingers, your cheeks, your eyes -- they're my storytellers;
They're all the poetry I need.

Your greatest protector.
Beauty arrest me.
Seep me through thy thorny sand,
engorge me in thy bitter-sweet poison,
consume me in thy blue light...
For you see -- you are my mansion --
invisible, unwritten of, unsearched for.
You are the gemstone of my navel...
For where I bid life good morrow is where you raise my maple.
And when I bid life good sorrow, you run the blood down to rest at the perch of my veins...
You are my gluttony, my yellow-orange pink sweet sun,
and my enveloping gush of irate fire.
You are my consensual plug of ire.
I harken the sun -
to lower itself down on your feet
I raise my toes, ready to run
on the speed of your declared heat.
My mind functions on your veracity,
to retain the comfort of your seat, your sanctuary.
For, you- you are the God of my arena,
of my all too quick subpeona.
You call my persona,
and surround me with horror-filled flora.
I render-  your face catapulted forward with laughter... such sweet laughter.
I render- the people in whose ears the laughter will chime
- the people for whom those chimes mean no dime.
So fortunate they are, but they do not realize...
For what I wouldn't give to be the ossicle of one of their auditory shrines

"Hear me, hear me," would the pitches wave...
Gladly, would I catch their sway.
Gladly, would I let my blood pump frantically through my veins.
"I hear you, I hear you," I would say.
"Which realm am I in, dear sire?", upon which the man responds:
"The only realm you want to know."
And then she held both his regularly-shaking hands in hers, watched his eyes ponder her stripped body, and uttered: "I stand naked before you. Will you jump with me?"

— The End —