We meet in the middle
With the purest of intentions.
Tip to tip,
And sometimes, limb to limb,
We look for ourselves
In the other's eyes.
But our pith,
They remain untouched,
And then we are surprised
At what we do not see.
Posts
What Labor Could Lose
2 days ago
2 comments:
Proust in a nutshell -- or rather, clothed in tree bark....
I like that, Rebekah.
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