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These Eyes

It’s my eyes.

They don’t tire of his arms stretched around her shoulders.

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Or of hers around his.

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Or of all of them an inch apart around the table.

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They don’t even tire at the stuff I thought would make them tire. Of him casually tickling the daylights out of her while no one’s looking.

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Or of her contorting one way. And him the other.

When a “normal” picture is clearly too much to ask.

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They do not tire. These eyes.

Because it is not the fuzziness of the photo they see anymore.  But the arms. Slung over the neck and around the waist. Holding, claiming, loving.

And it is enough. This wordless love.

It is enough.

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