I want to tell you a
gentlest thing. Like light
to you. Like old faces
being fed a good memory
from inside themselves.
Like eyes that do not
watch but slowly meet
across a room in which
everyone is, and no one
need hurry to what he is
sure of. I want to say
before we run out of
rooms and everyone
that I am slowest,
surest, gentlest, too,
across whatever room
I look at you.
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