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They’ve been talking on corners
with their common hearts

We are just waiting for you to crash,
he told me. We are just waiting
for your world to fall apart.
They’ve been holding their breaths,
selfishly
watching my heart dance
openly on its bare feet
around perfumed words
among love’s velvet folds
atop bejeweled dreams
in an impeccable rhythm that
puts the precaution of spring to shame
they found fault in the gracefulness
because they would have to
pass hatred on perfection, otherwise
and envy renamed itself
as something requisite for normalcy
and made the pronouncement:
I should know better than to
love as if there were no tomorrow

and I wish they could hear themselves

at this age people don’t like
happy ending stories anymore
at this age people don’t write
poetry about certainty anymore

But what do you do
with a sunrise this beautiful?
When you wake up and there’s
manna from Heaven on the breakfast table
you fall on your knees and give thanks.
Love reads more like a thing forgiven
than an epithet for innocence
but do you shamefully compress it
in a sealed box, that moment
when Carlos Santana’s guitar claims you
as its crowned goddess?
It’s only for the duration of one song,
but how do you wear love’s melody?
Do you tuck away the color purple
and monarch butterflies
and clothe yourself instead
in an exalted ordinariness
on the night the prince throws a ball
to look for his bride?
It’s only for one night,
but how do you spend your nights?

So many women bare their bodies
in their full nakedness
in the name of art, or lesser things.
Why judge a naked soul, if it’s pure?

And a heart…
a heart this strong is meant
to be sent on missions,
and it intends to return to its Creator
with exotic tattoos and legends to tell.
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flowersonhair
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photo of model Pia Miller (photographer unknown)

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