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That was the first thing I had to learn about HER, and maybe the hardest I’ve ever learned about anything- that she is HER own, and what she gives me is of HER own choosing, and the more precious because of it.
The woman is man’s prey, his damnation, everything he craves and wants to have, his denial and reason for being.
Sometimes a butterfly will come to sit in your open palm, but if you close your hand, one way or another, it, and its choice to be there, are gone.
But there will come a day when I no longer feel the need to ceaselessly write about HER, think about HER and dream of HER.
I can only hope it’s because SHE has decided to take the risk of returning to me, rather than shamming the door shut behind her.