The scent of her hair was in my nose this morning.Yes, this is a quaint opening to a poem, but no less real for that... The memories of the softness, the silken voice, the love that comes with eggs served at six AM ...
Whispering something soft and kind, like James Taylor said ... Nobody does such things anymore ...
Days of harshness and hardness, days of lax love, people with agendas, the crippling weakness that takes one over ...
I'd like to write a Whitmanian litany right now, but I just don't have the strength
You must forgive me
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