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.
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Under the Spanish Volcano
21 hours ago
2 comments:
Proust in a nutshell -- or rather, clothed in tree bark....
I like that, Rebekah.
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