i debate posting this. i always do. but in the end, the desire to be known or understood always wins.
i’ve lost my sense of all things good to know
and sit, awash in affect too sincere;
i cannot blame what’s left of afterglow,
and wish i knew how to allay this fear,
for all i want’s to tell you were i stand
and ask if you’ll consent to join me there,
but it’s already tried and ruined land,
and you have been there with me, i’m aware.
alas, i feel i don’t deserve the chance
to show what once i lost i may have found;
i gave it up, but if your patience grants,
i’ll prove that, though i can’t say it aloud,
i fall slowly, but this is no less true:
i can’t find words for the way i love you.
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