If I had it my way, you'd be my poem.
I’d write you beneath bittersweet
Willows, weeping for lost
Seasons of ripening.
And you would flow from my pen
Like inspiration, and I would be possessed
By spirits of sleeping bards.
I’d fold you tenderly in eight
Simple creases, and slip you
Into my pocket, feeling your genius
Against my thigh
As I rush home to look at you
Freshly.
And at a second glance,
I see you are not flawless.
So, I rewrite my thoughts,
And the smudges and blots
Make you far more beautiful.
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