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The Heart Forgets Not
Candlelight glowing on bath water, in a warm earth-scented room.
Sam hears Frodo’s voice directly behind his ear, laughing.
“No, love, my turn,” and the whisper deepens.
A wet hand snakes across his hip.
He arches up into that touch.
Beloved hand: strong, skilled, caressing.
Sam cries out, inflamed.
Never wanted more.
And awakens.
Alone.
Abandoned.
Despairing heart.
The repeating dream.
Body aching with desire.
His face, wet with tears.
Yet he still hears that voice.
Yearns to kiss those sweet lips again.
Starves for the all-consuming embrace of joyful passion.
He sobs in pain; rises from the cold bed.
Forehead against the windowpane, he stares sightlessly at the stars.
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