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I want to write something bigger than you.
I want my words to move mountains.
To stretch from sea to sand to lonely cliff,
metaphors tumbling with sharp staccato, edges wearing thin, smoother than your glib lies will ever be.

I want to write something other than love.
Having love, lacking love, I want to
I have bound myself in by submitting to you.

I want the colors to burst from me, a kaleidoscope
hard as diamonds,
soft as skin.
Fractured, I want to bind myself together, fitting the torn edges. Broken, I want to find myself whole again.

I want to navigate the deep trenches between us.
To open the gates
I did not close,
I did not break.
To stumble into the sunlight blinking,
fingers like keys in locks,
pulling us into adventure.

I want to write about the path not taken,
my words and actions in harmony
as I do on to you as you cannot
(or will not)
do on to me.

I want to be enough to hold this stumbling cadence together.
To define myself not by you,
but with you.

I want to believe with every fiber,
heart to loins,
crest to sole,
inhale the future you whisper into my lungs.

I want the sun to rise. I want the earth to warm. I want the days to stack like stars, infinite and vast in light and heat.

I shiver in the chill
as I reach my arms across our bed to stroke you.
I slide across your back and wonder where you are.

I write something smaller than you, the ice building to a wall of stone, impervious.

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