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| For T-- Like a clumsy child: heavy fingers made of lead gawking awkwardly at love- fragile beautious crystals brittle as glass- placed in soiled, trembling palms. In nervousness words are lost; beautiful ancedotes forgotten. All that remains are tell-tale glances like a window to the soul eyes reveal what speech cannot impart: the reciprocation of love. ~ 27 August 2002 |