This is what you did. I must have
imperfected our eclipse when
I reached out to snip it with
dull scissors. I'm all a-drum.
One cannot solve the stalemate now.
I'm greenish-white transparent leaves
in the sunlight. Oh! oh! oh!
Your eyes were like force-grown
potatoes, romanticized in a
famous magazine, overwhelming
my eyes at the same time
within the core of the image.
I'm not at the breakfast table writing this,
I hope you know. I just wanted
to tickle the tip of your nose
for a moment. But I exited my lodgings,
tugging at the curtain of the wizard;
our words now mummified,
chiseled into history, the way our
treks perhaps still make the grass whisper,
the way our footprints still rise
to the surface of the sweet earth.
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