A poem for sisters.
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You're mushier than I am sometimes. I wonder how that can be.
Sometimes I run around in circles, hysterical,
and fall weeping into your long distance arms.
Because life demands it, I charge forth and keep charging,
taking no prisoners, and then sit there hiccupping
while you glow with sisterly warmth.
Only occasionally does your own armor slip--your custom armor--
and when it does,
I am privileged to help you readjust it into place.
In a former life, you were someone's most prized possession.
In this life, you are my so very much prized friend.
Because we are sisters,
I will always love you in a way that Pierre cannot.
I will have loved you all my life.
Nothing against Pierre.