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It is the gentle ache of minor remorses
wetting the path as touched by rain, and though
it is raw it does not chill me, rather
the warmth of its encasement falls
like a smooth and molten tomb
only I can sense
I walk through it as the cobbled street
fills the concaves with my troubles
my steps alter and I sway like
the drunks in the candlelit days
It is my way to become engrossed
in this my own realm 
only I can sense
and the ache precedes me 
as I engage my mind with pretty things
to make me yearn, to make me turn
as I gaze before, full on for a moment
until my back commences to face
that which is laid behind
I embrace the ache and taste the warmth
of even better days 
only I can sense