The woman
in the wrinkled teal scrubs and dripping mascara talks to me through whispers cascading through the ether on their own heroes journey. The whispers, themselves alive just trying to find their way home between my arms and into my heart so they can finally speak and sing the harmony my desperate ears and wandering mind only now, years later would know as the birth of love.
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PoetryBecause all that science just gets old after a while. Archives
October 2019
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