.
The story is not written, not written dreams,
the subtle yawns when the sun rises, perfect communion
chores and gestures,
the pleasure of that body penetrated, tangible,
absorbed in another, alienated
in simple solitude of being loved, loving.
The story is simply, you miss the words to tell
glacial light on the eyes,
ecstasy, hope, serenity further
pierced by a sudden flight of pigeons.
Who said love, who can say that without being written
going to be all true.
The story is not written, not written dreams,
the subtle yawns when the sun rises, perfect communion
chores and gestures,
the pleasure of that body penetrated, tangible,
absorbed in another, alienated
in simple solitude of being loved, loving.
The story is simply, you miss the words to tell
glacial light on the eyes,
ecstasy, hope, serenity further
pierced by a sudden flight of pigeons.
Who said love, who can say that without being written
going to be all true.
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