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When I look at you, it is with
the full measure
every imagined inopportunity.
And if you feel that it wasn’t worth the telling,
I would remind you, that
is at my core.

With your hands and intent upon me,
you sent me into myself
and I found desire.
The tips of everyman’s fingers
will fail now, in comparison.

And now after it all,
the telling and the staying,
I’m not desolate; but I’m something…
and while its lovely
and funny,
a part of me will reside
in the silence
and always feel it fully.

A poem by my friend louise dick.