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all love is a blade to the throat

You can feel the wind break against things that are no longer whole. Survival comes in fits and starts, cups of coffee and half-listening to the radio. It isn’t war, this ghost of death. It is an invading country, a siege. A sterling opponent that has no match. This is everything is falling apart. Only, everything has already fallen. All the tenses are wrong. The conjugations have gotten themselves lost. You don’t say what you’re thinking.

Then, the phone rings. Then, the miracle comes – the one star you can identify without even looking. It is early, too early for coffee, but your voice finds itself. Sadness has curled into the small of your back. Absence is how you cut your teeth. The burden slows done. It does not vanish, but small sections turn into fog. Whenever the phone rings, you feel it. Confession are made. Then, promises. Each word builds a word you could barely hope for.

But nothing is easy. All thing are bloody. All love is a blade to the throat. No one holds the knife easily. It is an act of war. It is an act of peace. It is a balance. You give for what you love. You struggle to accept the way it changes you. You wait. You wait. You wait. Still, the phone rings. A name repeats. You draw a card from the deck and smile.

We do not forget those who see us through.

We do not forget those who see us.

 We do not forget.

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