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One

	Love is a penalty. We are punished for not having been able to remain alone.
			--Marguerite Yourcenar

What is the need to refuse
that punctuates the seamless hours
and separates yes into no?
A faint wind,
it prefers itself,
the madwoman you are afraid
to invite to dinner.

Quietly you pace your spinster days.
Morninglories choke the lintel.
You look for your kind
in that exile,
in that banished exile of solitude.
You cannot stay alone like this,
facing a reflection of your face
you reach out
and stumble into your own arms.

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