She told him she would not be there tonight
to catch him, as he ran headlong toward the cliff;
he did not hear...
for her extended metaphors rang in his ears,
which she composed for him, but could not finish
the night before...
Something about his face, and a written letter
gazing into her eyes; enveloping his need,
longing to read...
Something about an address,
and a whispered destination
she fears she will miss...
He thought of how she would compose the letter
and all the things she said she dare not say...
Either way, he told her, she will win-
if she finishes it, he will melt in her arms;
if she cannot, and casts a downward look of despair,
he will lift her face up toward his, and melt in her arms.
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