I thirst for her. Her image is far, her reality existing elsewhere other than mine. Closing the eyes, I can see her skin—green, brown, yellows and autumnal oranges. She is silent in the patterns of passing weather. I can feel the wildness within her. Open again, after the quick flashes of rapid eyelids, I’m in my cell grasping aged iron bars within a grand structure of concrete, brick and stone. I’m in jail and all I can think of is her. Days and weeks pass strolling my paved limits, but finally I escape, digging through the noise and business, opening the
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