Reminisce, for touching her is like touching nobody else.
Hers is beauty, and hers is the cold and hers is the perfume.
Crush my hands and cut my fingers, for their utility fails.
Pluck my eyes out and cripple the beating of my heart:
Their existance, in biunity remembered, is led to naught.
And let time and trees sing with singsong voices and chord,
For my mind, beholden to time, is by it bound and mute,
and my gagged voice and my darkened sight are all to me.
A biunity of form and essence, like song and grapheme,
I crave to see. My eyes sing and my voice stares; at me.
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