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I am the map of scents
that calls out to you
from peopled distances,
homing pigeon
the nostalgic sky
the punctual sea

I am your recurring dream
the room with the door
that opens into another room
the karma you can’t escape from
the spool of coiled hope
bottle green
glowing from within

I fall into you
like a garden of meteors
burning up
smashing sacrificially
into your stratosphere
counting on its beauty from
traversing the cosmic hallways
of a thousand light-years
to break into your
complexly assembled defense
if only for an instant,
maybe two
draw a line across the void
an indelible memory
silver knife-thin
to accompany you
when you close your eyes

I fall towards that black hole
powerful vacuum of
a gentleman’s promise
and pile up, refugee-like,
all my 27 birthdays and investments
as supporting pillars under
the loading dock on the pier
where I shall meet you,
in June,
the graceful and magnificent
older sister that April and May
will always secretly nurture
ambitions of becoming,
the way every man envies you
for being the sole object of
this heart’s
freefall evolution
into immortality
the clairvoyant sky
the anachronistic sea

Photo first found through a Google images search.
If this image belongs to you, please let me know.