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Do not confuse the writer with the woman.

Of being alone with being lonely.

You see, both have their place.


Just as the sun completes the moon and the rain gives way to clear blue -

one cannot live without the other.


It is a deliberate life

of choice and conviction.

Neither comes easy.


And when you

finally open that door,

what do you see?


The one you kept locked for so long,

heavy with the weight of it all.


Does it spring free and wide or open slowly

on rusty hinges and rotted wood,

waiting for a lift and a good yank to set it free?


I have not written to you in a while, my love.

I’m sorry.

I lost myself in the day to day.  The mundane of things.


And I forgot. 

I forgot the pink and purple sunset.

The warmth of a fire by my side.


I am born of water yet drawn to the things of this earth.

The dirt and rock.

The desert which by any other name is an ocean upon itself.


It was my home before it was my home.


Here I find solid footing.




And it pushes me away from the girl I was

toward the woman I will be.

The void between slowly dissipating.


Only the horse and dog know,

and they have sworn never to speak of it.


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