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It’s a maddly presumption that one lover wins

while the other one loses.

I will take you to my grave.

 

This is merely (oh so much!)

love suspended, unbalanced and

incapable of thriving the gamble lost.

“She was extending a hand that I didn’t know how to take,

so I broke its fingers with my silence.”

So, we spoke of surviving the death of love

over arrowed shots of bourbon and agreed,

both hands will remain broken despite time’s

illusion as a healer.

Love does not exist in time.

Love exists in the penultimate strokes of the soul

where a clock is as likely to ring an alarm

in the middle of the night

or the midst of coffeed business

as the sensation of the ring

recalls, no longer on your finger

which was severed to the compost heap

of your heart and soul

as recently as a moment ago

cultivated like a pearl

in years of trauma.

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Quote from Jonathan Saf