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Slow



Is how we started, how we first said hello, how we inched towards each other over the years and across the miles.

Slow

Is how we played our first hand, shuffling and rearranging, plotting and scheming, when neither of us had a plan.

Slow 

Is how we finally made it to this realm, without knowledge or reason, when neither of us had a clue.

Slow

Is how we've been doing this sweet tango, the bittersweet aching, the pushing away and pulling back together, and sometimes with two left feet.

Slow 

Is how we dream and plan and hope and imagine, with no end in sight and no beginning either.

Slow

Is how I make love to you, in my mind and on your skin, in soft whispers under the red moon, my fingertips inside your mouth, my tongue at the base of your neck.

Slow

Is how I will let you go, one word at a time, one tiny metaphor, one long drawn-out syllable, one little kiss for every inch of our dreams.

Slow 

Is how we will finally make it, whether we end up in a messy heap on the floor or shiny and bright in each other's arms.

Slow

It's where we belong. 

The Cloudcutter

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