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Chenille Whisper He spoke in a whisper but not because I asked him to. His words were tender fingers caressing tensions from day's overwhelmed skin. He did not know the gentle effect his thoughts conjoining with mine would have on my tired soul in this turbulent frightening time. Yet he whispered with risk and daring and joy. He spoke of things unmeasured. Ideas sprung from the pool where candid thoughts spilled. I gathered up the sounds like a blanket made of chenille, and wrapped myself up in it wearing comfort like a shield. He replied again in a whisper but . . only because *he* wanted to. |
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