I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find
I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me
I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of laying by, or making love, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery
I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention
I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write, I could not write about me
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