She can’t stay too long in shallow waters.
The touch of dry souls is like
a crime against her flowing form.
Left to their own devices,
things fall to the ground
instead of emerging on the surface.
All her claims to beauty
seem out of place here:
passion too deep,
hurts too blue,
and the way she moves—
as if she’s certain that everything she does
makes ripples that defy time and distance,
bend light and leave echoes of her siren song
in every corner of the connected,
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