love's more dangerous when it rests.
when, on a bench, spring air; not quite warm yet,
it lingers by saying:
"don't wait for me, it's going to be long".
but still you do. that's where the danger lies.
in the non-option.
i did not choose, it's the intrinsic definition of lies.
they repeat in time and feed on one another. and only palely
come up, as watermarks on a forgotten bible
when they are repeated on and on.
as if they wanted to say:
"rest assured in cradled arms, summer will be cool, beds will become suddenly larger from now on".
written for Z.D.
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