Letters to Eve

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Of what I wish us to be.

Rain.

A springlike December is in the wind.

Spring with warmth of someone converging on my being.

Come.

Take me.

Make me able to smile again.

Even if for just a day in December.

She is able, eyes tell.

Pulling me down the steps.

Then leaving me alone.

Again.

Standing alone.

Wondering.

Coming to my senses.

Senses.

Of what is it all.

Of us?

Maybe?

Could you ever?

What do you think?

When will you want company?

Will you ever?

Could you even ever?

Accept it?

Cherish it?

Lessening my emotions is not my aim.

Yet.

Although not intentional.

It Is my present worry.

How if I am not there could we ever be?

Knowing?

Growing?

Seeing?

Without her.

Reacting to thoughts.

Dreams.

Is only a mere segment.

Of what I wish us to be.

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