The familiar structures of longing
rearrange my chest.
Oh, that love of mine—
that half-built home—
is a happiness that rarely holds my hand,
caught between the sibilance of apology
and the aching syllables of goodbye.
But Love is a nostalgic thing,
and returns to its old haunts like the rest of us;
even the unfinished constructions of your soul
can save you a little from the rain.
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