Someone is reading a poem.
One of Rilke’s. He had always been her favorite. How he could take his waking morning memories and turn them into hope-filled, angel-fed prayers, the beauty in each line’s breath made her soul ache in places she didn’t know could feel. And as each word pierced the air as she gave them life, light wound through her, filling her eyes with drops of starshine, bound by galaxies of dreams that cascaded through her heart. How he could make her feel… make her yearn for all she desperately craved, all that was bright and beautiful and begging to burst through to her seeking smile as the last syllable spilled from her lips.
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