Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart.
I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name. – Peter S. Beagle
When they fly past me, I hear bells.
A gentle ringing – like they’re attached to the tail feathers,
Sailing out behind them, as curved wings cut through the cold air.
Yet no matter how fast I run, how desperately I search,
They always outfly me. The ringing always fades.
When I see you, I hear bells.
A warm dong – like autumn soup reverberating through my chest,
Heating me up like a cup of cocoa, sipped under an amber blanket.
And when I loop my arm through yours, fingers intertwined,
The dinging settles down. A satisfying chime.
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