Write me a poem and rock me to sleep,
softly
Stroking my hair while our history
weeps.
I won't be the one to write to you yet,
at least
Until I cast out the reaper of
regret.
We know that next week is covered in fog,
and
This night serves an illogical
cog,
Fitting into no machine known to man.
well,
We do what we emotionally
can.
I won't yet ring the bells for celebration,
but
Fireworks will illuminate our
reunification.
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