| I walk unaided by and large
watching always for the ambush; holding hands is often one grip short of hostile fire. I write at 3 a.m. � alone each breath is mine, not yours, nor even ours. Except - when my hair cascades your shoulder, tangles on the aftertaste of skin it feels right to be � so close. Maybe one day I won�t guard my every step in case I lose it. Maybe one day I will hold your hand. |
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| *image: Pino |