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by Melissa Gammill
I do not declare
our love
as the even tones
of your breathing
-you sleeping warmly
beside me
on one of my many
insomniatic nights

we're hardly
the yellow flowers
stolen greedily
from the road-side
-immersed shallowly
in a kitchen vase
to reflect the perfect home.

I often fidget
with the twoness
of words
-like you as want
me, as a poor substitute for need
but we never fit
the molds exactly.

In short definition
you are landscape
and I
often the tar upon your back
I am concrete
and you
often the weeds pushing through.

We split each other apart
while somehow
still holding each other together.

And sometimes
in our deeply quiet moments
we finally discover each other again
-connecting steadily in the truth
only we know.

We are then the purple mosses
growing beauty
--hidden beneath the mounding rocks
all forgotten in the shade.

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