Or do I simply need a soul to clutch?
One to tenderly hold me, an anchor through affectionate touch?
I wish you not to become just another meager source of raw material for lamed stories,
as others have become over my ages.
No, I want the happiness, the soothing tranquility - like the soft first snows - of your presence to echo boldly though these pages.
I wish not to be cast away - dash'd upon the rocks after failed flight.
I want to work on life.
But I am a frail, ill-guided boy,
drunk tonight.
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