Love Note 823 – draft

Love Note 823

The trouble with numbers is

I’ve lost count of all the

quiet hopeful gestures;

to me you are one

singular graceful open hand.

Counting all those moments

would mean assigning you

a feebly fixed decibel,

when I know you are

a swirling whirling infinity

violet in the dark

reaching always for me.

 

—ECW drafts

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