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bookends

We are only story,
Your words traced onto my parchment skin, and

Our trite thoughts become shakespeare. I hold on to each letter,
Memorizing the way your lips form my name,
How your tongue sends out your thoughts.
Sometimes as soldiers solemn, your mission embedded in every syllable,

Invading, even after your lips have ceased; and I am conquered.
But more often as a creek, slipping in and out of the bends of our conversation,
Your breath reminds me of summer rain, gentle in its softness, powerful in its rush.

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