Poetry

You are, for some reason,
the most poetic thing I can think of.
More romantic than
a lost shoe in a gutter,
more touching than
a child on a bus, alone.

You are the words I haven’t learned
and the tears I’ve already spilt.
Your face is a song about
one season, and one season only,
a span of 3 weeks
when clouds transcended
across my sky and
faded into the blue.

You are, for no reason,
something I can’t forget,
and nothing I want to remember.

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