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photo: MetArt

WITH PATIENCE comes everything, Dear Asha,
and a smooth, teasing grip with just enough
friction to make me shiver in your grasp.

It’s the torture I must endure; being brought
so close but left so far away from my home:
Vosa, Wesa, or Heaven. Or just close enough
to you, my love.

What can be forgotten?
What can be remembered
in such an instance?
Nothing comes to mind.

The only feeling is the
one you give me.

But we must endure,
write with a dull pencil
our names on the pages of time.

Fast — our reflex to pain.
Slow — our response to pleasure
(let me tickle you some time).

Otherwise, we clench a fist — 
count to 21 minutes
and seven seconds
until we explode
and all our dreams drip away.

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