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And there you were,
the blue hour draped around you
like a shawl and all your
motivations a little disheveled.
The benign hush that
assumes the shapes of
what could have been overcome
blames nothing,
not even circumstance.
Some epiphanies are like
sea glass: broken
from a forgotten whole,
lost in rarely charted waters,
and with edges worn off by waves
that arch like the wings of fate.
It’s hard to tell from looking at you
where you really started.
You are part shipwreck
and part sunken treasure,
foggy and turquoise
and mystifying.
No one thinks less of a jewel for
forgoing a little clarity
for a few nights at sea,
for coming in to possession
of a thousand questions.
They make a pretty pattern,
hanging from your neck like amulets
and bringing out the depth
of passion in your eyes.
Nobody ever told you,
and they couldn’t even if they knew,
the birth you gave was going
to require a daily reimagining
of your own needs.
Every night a different sky.
It’s something you realize for yourself
when you find that the sun
rises on your right shoulder
while your love prefers
to weep on your left.
And the shawl of blue hour
fades into a night that hides you,
hides your rough places
without questioning.
It is kind to you because it
recognizes the way you gaze
at love: as if you expect to drown
and are giving it instructions
to collect your pieces
along the shore.

“Claudia” by photographer Luca Foscili


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