love like a pamphlet.
Now that he loves another I will never move back to that - hindered memories from blooming out of themselves. Captured in distortion / new jar of pollen paste I can take and smear upon a clear canvas as any good artist would do. I shall learn to translate the pastpresent into present action and run a muck these new hills. He holds nothing over my illusion of his grasp and what a gentle grasp it was, were. To extend my window towards spring expansion only rises to retain that which pin points the diameter of forward. Double pause and there is always another hand. Unless it's yours, mine, yours. In that case. It's always there. Dear John, Love Liz.