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A modern poem: The only language I seem to understand is your fingertips tracing hearts on my hands, ragged fingertips, pincers, claws held in the thrall of forever-now. Staring straightly blankly ahead as falls away the thread of memories episodic. You. I know you. I know you're my wife, a lover, a friendly face, oasis of refuge, unharmful place. That I belong to you, somehow.