stale, like a memory from a past life.
A sludge that grows in every man’s heart
A wild affectation that tears you apart
A fire in the stomach, a buzzing in the brain
Symptoms you should heed, else you go insane
A rupture of the senses, drowning in affection
Avoid at all costs if you can, this crazy infection
Perhaps Bartin had thought the poem was about wanderer’s lust. Maybe Lynne would think she had been talking about some kind of illness. It was, of course, about love. But she had been a bit like Dellylee, writing with inexperience, never truly really knowing what it was to explore…to be in love.
As she clasps Lynne’s hand, and their future and unknown destinations spread out before them, she feels the urge to write something new.
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