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Jan 2016
My Monday morning blues receded early
I owe to your touch, a generous touch of
Your dainty words formed as a garden
Painted with care, with love, with you.

The pavements track your footsteps
Those same light strides, ever so careful not to trample on the delicate sprouting life
Growing from concrete. They remember you.

The recluse river we used to reach out to
when either of us needed to disappear
Far from the world of overwhelming events of hostility, hate and harassment.

To sit and mull over bandaids to these ailments you believed could recover. See,
my intent was to just listen.
Listen to your wise whims of hope of this
Plagued world you incessantly unearth.
Beautiful, I thought.
The look of benevolence on your hands as you spread to the vastness of the dimming sky.
The pitch of ambition in your voice as your lips curve and unfurl to the strength of the pacing tides.
The glistening light of beauty in your eyes as you passionately look into mine and see nothing, but admiration.

Now bringing back those golden moments isn't viable or a breeze. Time has torn a rift between the vivacious vitality of Us.
Closing my windows and stargazing your Touch can only relieve me of my painful sighs.
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