Looking back, finding the beginning was the most difficult. The endings, like the reunions, came twice a month. Like clockwork,
a precise machine. Predictable. Inner workings somehow beyond our control.
Maybe if we'd been horologists or cardiologists
we could have some clarity.
Something.
Convinced it was a miracle, an ecstatic, a raving fanatic, so newly reborn, I pleaded against a closed door
for the miraculous
to enter my dark heart
just once more.
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