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I didn’t come here to cry
I came here to write
but both my pens
are running out of ink
just like many
unplanned things

Why is it
that every time I see you
it always feels like
I cheated the universe
off something
tremendously important
and got away with it?

fine specimen of a man
clothed in bonfires
and scarlet feathers
with a miraculous understanding
of desire
sewn onto your aura
like a sheriff’s badge

you belong to the world
not to me
or anyone
zip across the stratosphere
like an all-important
and cavort in sand
finer than fairy dust
bathe in oceans
more pure
than any of my most
sacred dreams

I consider it
a mathematical impossibility
that you’d come around
and claim
to remember me

“Morning Beauty | Anna Kuznetsova” by photographer David Bellemére