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The Lover

It gets more insistent as the years pass,
shadowing all my hours of all of my days,
like Jesus knocking on the door with a revelation.
It’s a heavy ache, always there,
like the sky looks before the rain.
It’s as sharp as sunlight
in the eyes when you first wake up,
lighting up the trees and buildings
I can see from the balcony,
and the memories I can’t possibly see
without a pen in my hand.
It’s blowing gently, playfully
dancing with the trees leaves
and I can feel its satisfaction,
whether I join in the dance
or not. It only cares to make
the joy complete.
So that is why I write,
so I can dance with my demon lover.

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