An exchange of letters, perhaps? Postcards? Wishes? Dreams? Or what shall it be? Autumn leaves?
Between Us
Walking in the mist reminds me that wherever I go
my face arrives before me,
so that when we meet again, love,
my secrets will all have been revealed.
.
.
.
.
And then
will I
be healed . . .
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
William Michaelian 