Where does your care come from?
For it may be the low gray walls of my little mind
Impeding my eager view
But I cannot make it out.
Is it labeled desperation
From a cyclical falling out of love?
Addiction, perhaps
To that gentle tug of needing.
Or does it taste of breath
Shared in close comfortable confines
That settles in your nose sometimes
When you go to sigh?
Or last, and leastly plausible
Could it conceivably be
That you have seen between my lines
Heard within my mumbling
And you are truly attracted
To the texture of my soul?
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