Hello Spring Quarter.
Can you just look at me. I mean, all of me? Because I can't lie to you and say that half of what you know is what you love. Sometimes I need that; someone being a professional at hide and go seek to find the rest of what I hide behind the abundance of what I claim as unimportant to even myself which causes you to forget. Truth be spoken, even though it becomes less important to you, I hope you do it anyway. I used to think that an exclusive tongue would save me from a tyrant, but they still come. 1 does not turn into 100 regardless of how powerful the wave and sun and healing. Secret truth is my palms often claim my face like stitches, only in comfortable silence and night hours that would send vibrations back through the now tear catching fingertips; however, my heart, more than eardrums, loves to listen, so it spilled a cup once over – so slow was I to recollect those recollections of a voice inside you screaming your held tight past. Once, I thought “I love to like you, but I’d like to love you less because unless you have for me a broken piece of you to stay the night, I won’t if that’s all I have to offer you.” But broken is as broken does my doings, so I’ll depart a dusty shelf willing to spring clean, and break my spine to numbered pages. And read me, like you do so well even when your eyes are closed. If you do wish, as I wish you do...grab your greatest pair of binoculars and stare for hours even if it is all pretend so I will know - that you are looking- or in some fashion...trying to.
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