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Sitting, Silent

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I love the poetry, the reality of your voice
Low and desperate, but slow, amused,
kind, and scared maybe—
Yes, scared I think—
and maybe that’s the beauty,
the key of it, of you— fear—
so viscerally true,
so honest, façadeless
that I fall, tumble,
plunge to my
demise,
barely
daring
to glance
up
at you
as you
read
a poem





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