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It’s too late now
that I have
put my heart in your hands
to take it back.
Now that it knows
how soft your hands are,
it will never want to
leave the cashmere folds
of its goodness and
the tickling brushes
of the gentle miracle of
the knowledge of you.
This love has overcome me,
finally; I can feel its
patient vines wrapping
its youthful curling
tendrils around the
Doric columns of each hour,
growing ever upwards
in an irrepressible desire
to greet the sun
and thank it
for favoring my heart.
Oh, vulnerability
had been a dirty word,
until I met you.
You made sincerity fit
in the sagging bookshelf
where I have
haphazardly stashed the
riot of volumes on
ambitions and regrets,
fears and five-year plans,
aliases and diplomas,
all those nights I
came home late too tired to
alphabetize and put things
in any semblance of order.
Now I can sleep soundly
in spite of the wind.
I found you
as one finds, finally,
the perfect shade of blue
after seeing it, once
upon a time in a happy dream
letting her feet carry her
while perpetually staring
at the sky waiting
for the light to shift,
and show it the way
she remembered and was sure
she would recognize.
My dreams are encased
in your dreams, now
like the prodigal
daughters of moonlight
trapped in the little square
pieces of Murano glass I wear
as earrings, which I would
like to show off to you,
some time, over maybe
a bottle of chilled Merlot
at the Piazza on McKinley Hill
on the first night
of the rest of our lives.

untitled photo by photographer Linadelika


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