Today as I thought of her I remembered Rilke, a frament of one of his poems, that translates as “every angel is terrible”. I remember our last conversation, she said that the moment she knee she had to leave was when I told her “you are my escape from reality.” She said that I shouldn’t need an escape, that I should take reality as it is, but isn’t that what you should be? Isn’t that the point of loving? To get lost in their arms, to cradle in the sea of their lips, to envelop in thr sweetness of their arms, to drift into nirvana with the touch of their hands, to get lost in the skies of their words? If that is not what loving is for, then what?
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