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It is the one day for a special gift of intimacy: roses, chocolate, tickets to a baseball game, jewelry — or even a beautiful poem, like the bouquet Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer penned for the holiday. And like any true gift, these poem occupy a space between the author, the giver, and the receiver, like a meaningful conversation — or a kiss. Heart in My Hand, courtesy Rosemerry Trommer. I want to do for you what the sun does for me— coax you to come outside, to breathe in the golden air.
I want to warm you and enter you, fill you with brilliance, make your muscles melt, make your mind shush. I want to prepare for you luminous paths that span across deep space, thaw any part of you that feels frozen, find any cracks and slip shine into them. I want to intensify your shadow so you might better know your own shape. I want to encourage you to open, wider, wider, want to teach you to write your name in light.
I do not love you in 0s and 1s, some straightforward proposition— our love, my dear, is gray, is. There is maybe in us. And perhaps. Instead, a word, a tone, a should makes what is certain slip off its string and the bits and values keep changing. Somewhere between the 0 and 1 is a meadow where we might watch the moon, a garden where outlandish fruits still grow, a mountain we will never stop climbing.
Tonight love is a stray dog hungry and lean, manhood intact, who wanders to your front yard, drawn by the smell of food and also to the laughter, the quiet guitar, the poems. He laps at spilled wine. He nuzzles your hand.
He curls into the lap of everyone who will receive him. Meanwhile, overhead, Jupiter and Saturn, the two biggest worlds in our solar system, prepare to con. Meanwhile, all around there is howling. He is content to be here, content to let you turn anotherwhile at your feet, he stretches, settles, makes your home his home.
Every year the red or pink envelopes would arrive, three of them tucked into the post office box— one for my daughter, one for my son, and one for me.
Sally always remembered. But I had an inkling of the longing to give love inside them. How lucky to return her love. This year, only bills in the post office box and catalogs for sheets and seeds and clothes. And the part of me who knows she is gone shrugs as if I should just go on. But the part of me who misses her longs today to find her familiar script on a red envelope. I love the part of me that misses her—I love how it insists on remembering this gift: Such a wonder to be loved by someone, such a marvel to love them back.
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Start a chat. About me. Poets' corner: word woman rosemerry, love poems for cupid's day! The two-week relationship … clean it up, dan fouts Tonight love is a stray dog hungry and lean, manhood intact, who wanders to your front yard, drawn by the smell of food and also to the laughter, the quiet guitar, the poems.
Marriage: the ultimate long run Meanwhile, all around there is howling. How beautiful her heart. How lucky I felt to be chosen by her. Popular users.Looking for Telluride long term relationship perhaps marriage
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