As the cold morning approaches, I fight off the urge to rest my head on my soft pillow. I think of you and needles and cotton befall me at the exact moment. Your face, a perfect photograph inside my head. Words sharp as a scalpel through the layers of our fragile skin, our souls weary and experienced. I remember that tree.
We've seen the cloudless night sky, and the dark hues of a stormy day. I do believe we have yet to conquer our Rubicon. There are things I would be willing to walk through, an honest word and a sincere act - that is all I ask of you. It was never about the what.
I miss you terribly.
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