the door was there, and so was she.

the fabric of reality

was torn, or maybe sewn anew,

as we did what two people do

as, lost in storms, we searched for hope,

and hung on little bits of rope,

and made such heat as we required,

going just where we desired.

i remember all of it —

the fabric torn, the perfect fit,

the warm, the wet, the time, the place,

the upturned eyes within the face,

the girl who waits, the boy who hunts,

the sound of everything

at once

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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