Love, throbbing in my chest like an old wound, reaches out with both hands into a world in which I no longer belong, beyond the trivial urges I felt as a boy, into something much more potent, inspiring thought I never though I would think as an old man, love, glistening even in winter sunlight, stirring from the rich soil like crocus, the first true flowers of spring. I hear its stirring. I feel its embrace. I catch its scent, if not as sweet as roses, then as special and as practical, as a bricklayer whose word day in and day out to lay down a foundation that won’t wither at a change of season. Love filled with the cacophony of odd thoughts, lasts even when sometimes I do not wish it did.
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