My love

fragile as the delicate tendrils on this climbing vine,

My love

as tenacious as those shoots,

grasping for a reason,

groping for a way,

to rise up,

to move out.

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My love

as beautifuil as the blossoms

on fragile vines,

as transient

as morning blooms

that die by evening.

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Love grows painstakingly

slowly,

Love with no roots.

Love with no home.