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March 9, 2012

No matter how much of it, it won’t console me.  Presents and acts of service, the words.  His body in the moonlit room where we sleep, where I cling to his back when I wake with too few hours left.  Never alone in years, I’ve let them in.  I’ve slammed doors, smashed glass, cried at night when I didn’t get it back. And they never give it back.

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