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  Promise

Who knows what's going to happen
after you car crash or join a private club

with ideals that may come between us.
Will I still love you? And will I continue

to see the morning as a light that fills
the riffles in our bedclothes with an expression

of my being, its incorporation with yours
and whatever that other thing is

that passes as the tapestry of unbuffered life.
In this lovely place where anything can

and does happen, is it permissible to allow
these things to satisfy the longings of the self
      and its promise?

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