Wednesday, September 1, 2010

From the novel in progress...

He took Gloria’s hand in his and gently parting her fingers, kissed her palm. He pressed it to his lips. His breath was warm on her hand. “I should write a poem about you.”

“I’d like that.” And Gloria loved him. She loved Sheff—understanding that love is not about penises or having babies. It’s about poetry and laughter and lines, whether from books or scars that weave and hold us together.

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