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by Robert Diamante

I am your Narcissus,
your admiring stillness,
the Apollonian ego to your
Dionysian id.
You are my Goldmund.

Our stories have entwined,
we have enmeshed;
we are sometimes
so utterly interchangeable,
it becomes easy to hate you.

But mostly I love you.
Mostly my love for you spins out in
threads which weave our oneness–
that miraculous pattern of us.

And mostly our cup is filled,
topped by an arc so fragile,
it almost wants to burst,
and spill over.

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