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i watch the miles between Athens and Paris the way i watch
the Sharpie stains I once left on your sweater.
they make me think
of how i once drank out of your pores,
once felt the Tulip satin of your skin
underneath the Daisy cloth of mine.
we talked of adulthood stories then,
ones that were far too mature for us…
we weren’t missing enough (any)
petals telling me if you loved me
to understand them.
and i remember you telling me about wide gaps
people sometimes had in their souls because they were missing
(tales about broken, glorious heroes and heroines).
so then i gave you stories
to laugh about with strange(r) friends,
gave you Clowns and Jokers and Silly Executions.
but i never gave you You,
because i was too afraid to let you out of hurricanes
and into mountains tattooed onto my soul.
but now i just want to see you perched on a mile in front of my bedroom,
right where you used to be.
i promise to break the glass windowpane (pain),
if i ever see you again.