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When I cry, you sing to me and I pick up my guitar and throw away the tears.
You are my lover who sings a tune only birds (and me) can hear.

Lover, you make life complicated with a sweet-bitter taste to its phrases.
Only you could make winter into spring, and a scrap of cloth into a quilt fit for your grandmotherís handiwork.

Lover, why do we end up in some garbage can needing to be ironed out?
What do my tears and clumsy strummings do, that you want to give me a song for them?

I love you, and although this started as a tapestry of
predictable-unpredictablity, it will mend into a quilt of our imperfect (but pure) love.

A beautiful patchwork.

Home Poetry

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