I have a few friends. Well, I suppose I could say that I had more than a few, but only a few count. One, in particular, has been on my mind these past few weeks.
Meagin, my poet sister, as I've always known her. She's my best friend, and people question that. I suppose there should be a plethora of reluctancy from those who aren't used to the idea.
So many, many things come with change, and I often find even myself questioning their relation..
My dear poet sister, and myself, have such an appreciation for the written word. There hasn't been a time when her words, or her quoted lines from someone only too familiar, hasn't moved me into in a still break.
She calls me the reincarnate; says that my habits, tendancies, and simple mannerisms are only too parallel to her lady Dickinson. If only I felt obliged to such a comparison. Her lady's sweet words, textured style and wrenching story amaze me.
I can remember it clear as if it were only a moment ago; the first time I read her work. "Love is anterior to death". I remember breathing out the words with such a slow motion, such an inkhearted, indirected slow motion.
It's like she touched my soul...
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| folded so our two ends meet. |
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| solar powered night light |
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| "we're only like THIS" *crosses fingers |
:)