The Heart of the Matter

She knew my heart, better than I did myself, when we sailed upon the red sea, a journey of a thousand glorious days and luxurious nights, reaching toward fingers clasped in accord, breathing together, a conspiracy of intimacy. She knew my heart when she sliced it from my chest and fed it to me a sliver of beating sliver at a time, nourishing the shadows of doubt, nursing the timeless depth of depression, a singular gordian knot restraining the blade of judgement slowly turing above me.

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