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May 2019
The early morning sun filters through the lace of the curtains,
to form delicate patterns on dewy skin
 
I watch you, taciturn, take the tessellations
and convert them into mathematics
so that we can enjoy them later as music:
light, tangible form.
 
Exactly twelve hours later, you point out to me
the star that we came from:
a pinhole light
in the soft velvet, overhead abyss.
 
'Why can't we remember anything?' I ask,
and you just smile.
I pause to give a glance fleeting
to see you look up through wet lashes
And when your dark eyes lock on mine
All I see are windows
Written by
Neobotanist
664
 
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