Wednesday 13 August 2014

untitled

You are not one of a kind, and what we have is not much different from what others have. We hold hands like most others do. We believe we're entitled to that sense of possession. Like everyone else. We read the same poems they did when they were falling in love:

Had we but world enough, and time.


Would that we had all the world and all of time, indeed, but with this loving I am happy. I choose those eyes among many others, with its unending flood of stories waiting to be read. I choose those hands, rough and brown, to cradle mine. I choose to walk beside you beneath the acacias, I choose to wait for words to breathe in that space between us.

You are not one of a kind, and I choose you. I exercise the fullest sense of my being by so doing:

Siehe, ich liebe. Woraus? Weder Kindheit noch Zukunft werden weniger... Überzähliges Dasein entspringt mir Herzen.

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