Written beneath the skin,
those endearing analogies;
somewhere we second guessed
our intentions. We watched
the sunrise and we felt
the rain.
Our debates were based on
the facts of how we felt;
we expected acceptance of
our identity, we demanded change
for our affection.
We closed the book
before the story has finished;
the ending alters our interpretation
because of our perception.
Love is a narcotic that we inhale; our
reality becomes this sweet acid trip.
Detox from the effects is a bugger
to deal with.
Write Now and Later 
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