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Martin Johnson Heade's A Spray of Apple Blossoms
I’m running now to catch my wicked words carelessly embedded as shrapnel in your flesh.
Still, you are not without fault but then you are by nature charity where I’m devil.
Devil, screaming her distaste until it echoes.
Together we are passion without restraint.
Feeling all and experiencing none and your love so unlike blissful desire though I think it rapture.
We are wrapped in it until we burn.
All my love,