Years had elapsed
since last Anakin Skywalker
had seen Padme Amidala,
and yet he had thought of little else,
had desired little else.
So obvious was his anxiety
that Obi Wan Kenobi
had to remind him to breathe.
If our anxiety was a blazing fire,
deep within a hearth,
what would be the split logs
that we keep feeding it?
Is it desire, dread, or self-loathing
that fuels its flames,
and makes us so very uncomfortable
in our own skin?
Let us conclude
with a simple
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