will the books detail my legacy
of love
in their pages?
Is that what I'm waiting for?
Or do I instead
write a thousand poems
unseen
about the softness of your cheek
against my hand?
I know which will make me happiest.
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See Allof me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
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