malkhut shebnetzach
When you walked through the door—the happiness that overtook me, just as potent as years ago—and when I thought you had left without saying goodbye, well,
but you hadn’t. In any case, what do we owe the people who love us? To turn their love back to them, God says, wrap them in tight,
sing them the lullaby of their own love song. Owe them? I say. What do you want? God says. To be met, I say. Somehow, to be met.
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