Friday, October 2, 2009

Dear Anne

The face,
mercilessly simplified,
bears the thousands of others that exist inside.

The voice,
calling you myself,
replies to every proffer on be half.

Is it a dare
that is meant never to be undone?

Or is it a care
by that which concluded to give us just one?

You never seem to compromise
on the insipid reflection that meets the eyes.

What would I give
to fear and embrace with you
the sheds of feelings?

To tell you in the face,
dear Anne,
that I live a life of you?

To see anything
and to want everything
and to yearn for more things still?

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