If I take
refuge
here with
you, there will be no
other love for
me.
I’m not
biding time with you
or killing
it. I can’t dream.
Not in this
winter
of discontent. You there, kind
and deep
and shining.
Here’s one
more poem about the
oldest problem
in the book.
Add a
smiley face (-:
Make the
best of all you’ve built.
Call it
happiness.
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