I went outside, expecting nothing

but my own shadow at the 13th hour,

behold the sight that struck my promised heart like lightning:

Your brooding figure sitting on the dirty stoop,

the swoop of your wavy hair,

the dark rims under your eyes,

the silvery mist surrounding you after every puff,

the scruffy mess of a beard begging to be caressed by delicate hands,

the amber warmth of your eyes peeking through the curtain of a scowl,

full lips smirking as you speak about the days spent toiling in vain.

In turn, I cannot say the thing that’s been bothering me lately.

The smokescreen thickens as the conversation gets swept away

and our topics, set on a spinning wheel,

never landing where the universal signs are pointing.

The soft moonbeams that illuminate your face

make up sacred moments carved upon my memory.

May the haze never clear

so that I may hold the possibility

captive in my dreams,

while flowers weep dewdrops.

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