The clocks tick toward another

Tipping-point. The calendar makes shapes

Of warm hearts and fingers in knots

Their arches forming promises on lips

Just moist enough to say the words

“ I Love You “

And then the gloves are off

All the tremulous secrets must reach

Boiling points. And the look of love

Once coy must expose a knight or a maiden

Intent on shaping a future for two

Not just for the one with an arrow

In the chest

No news is bad news

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Choose the news. Don’t lose the news.

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