All we can do is wait, as we might do for sunset or sunrise,
hoping what transpires is worth the wait, for that breathless moment when the
body of the sun kisses the tips of waves or rises out of them, a glorious
moment as only love can achieve.
At such times, when the in-between dusk or dawn or in the
dull routine of day and dead of night (when all seems less significant), these
hours are not without promise, stained with the lingering light inside me,
inspiring me to wait all the ore for when I can feel it again, sunrise or
sunset, happy moments or sad, the start of it, or its eventual end, when we
accept love or cast it away, to start over, always perilous, always full of
doubt, yet leaving me with this potency I won’t feel again, and the need to
accept what is, those moments burned into my consciousness like a scar.
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