Choking on the fragment of a fantasy, I awake to an undeserved expectation That moment where you wonder if what you felt was real. It was piece of feeling, a shard of she. A comfort in that familiar yet new collection of giddy hopes. And as we sat, our minds entwined, I realized how much I missed a constant contact. Starved for touch and blind to the outreach of help's caress. Independence is a crutch, and self-sufficiency is scar tissue made by old wounds. A heart not hard, just calloused - worn down, worn out. The covering armor, stitched tight by a collection of sighs, must be removed if I'm to be released from the pressure of expectations.
Much of love is longing. I just don't know her name yet.
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