...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 46


To love is to impress upon the heart

A lasting image—spoken soul to soul,

And left to linger after you depart—

A perfect memory, writ and retold

In every fiber, every cell. It is

A signature, a fingerprint, a sketch,

Engraved upon the place where feeling lives,

Embedded there, as long as lungs can stretch

To take the air, and then to push it out.

Until you are so covered in the scars

That chronicle the loves you’re now without,

That even you forget the girl you are.

And I can’t find my heart, beneath the hands

Whose prints have buried who I really am.

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