What pain is in a kiss.
That gentle taste of (shadows masquerading as) morning's light.
It makes a mockery of love.
(a crippled champion, a lame stallion)
How it pretends to tell the measure of my devotion:
That my heart could span this great divide and still bear the weight of best intentions
This foolish notion casts a pall, and steals our vision.
My affections lie.
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