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He’s receiving me. Immediately. On all frequencies. Without judgment. Without cluttering the conversation to ask for more. With no impediment, an affirmation of unconditional presence. Here for me. With me. Undoing the laces on my corset [of self-annihilation].

Fresh, hot tears. He has penetrated the surface of my stupor and reawakened tender, feral emotion. Impaled upon a precipice of wholeness, I am once again a mess.

“Thank you,” is my closing reply before I turn the phone off.

I love the world for allowing a man like [him] to exist. I love the soul he comes from for making it possible for him to walk away from his mother’s cliff, unharmed. I loathe myself for not being more worthy of this gift.

Now, what’s stirring in this murky sea of complexity and foolishness is an almost suffocating need to breathe fresh history. The proximity of forgiveness — knowing they can be accessed with one glance through a living, breathing woman with a known address — I could just ask. I could trade a lifetime of penance for the balls to say I’m sorry. Just that much.

excerpt from The LOOK

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