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My heart has never been here before,
so far away from the place
where we started.
Diamonds and spoken vows but
blurs of pages we know by heart
now buried in the brunt of years
we’ve built on top of them.
Our lives have become intertwined
to the point of our mornings
breathing in rhyme,
and these daily motions
are lace so draped around
every available inch of stillness
that sunlight arrives
in intricate silhouettes on the walls
that have been privy
to our voices of discord
and faithfully softened with
brushstrokes of peace.

We are not the same souls that first loved,
my brokenness grafted
into your sheltering,
your roughness soldered
to the verse of my song
that is muse to the night.
The tougher layers that won’t bend
have fallen away, and we don’t miss them.
But tell me, do my kisses still
taste like potent secrets,
do our bodies still
finish each other’s sentences?
Do rumors of whirlwinds still brew
where I touch you, or
does that side of love change too?
Is there a name for passion
that is not fire,
and will it still know us now
that our shared existence
is no longer patterned after
the feeling of falling?

“Romance in the Park” by photographer Alex Levine


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