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If you please, an enduring lease.
Bits of you, all of me.
Context rather than personality.
The consensus of identity.
In absentia, the thought inuring.
This play of ours, a yes to dreaming.
When awake I no longer see you.
When sleeping I held you.
We cannot be.
This tragic dramaturgy.
A pursuit never ending.
The lessor of our intent in default
of our pedigree. Our dive
so easy into that our
murmurs pledge unheeding.
Your navel to my brow leaves
etches of a mandarin complex.
A sense too tense, a lapse of
a sensibility wise to malcontent.
Still unravished. Quiet in this
chase where my lines repent.
My fleeing muse.
Am I almost to you?
To that beautiful closing
we muse?
Stay your steps. Turn my way.
These irises. When they
find yours in an intimacy
too binding to break,
then will I know
compulsion to this
instant ever.
Know this is
certainly true.
When, at last, I am
faced with you.