Our love was the budding of a morning glory;
Sudden, temporary, almost in vain,
Yet with all the splendor and mystery
Of a world we barely understood.
Our love was a story almost told by wandering tongues,
Traversing hills and culverts of imperfect bodies,
Peeking flesh that only wagged when met with quivering flesh,
And bitten when love, removed, lingered in our thoughts.
Our love was a quiet love,
The kind which listens longingly
To lonely highway songs,
And stammers awkward goodbyes;
A love not felt, but lived;
Not spoken, but understood.
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