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it was surreal,
absurd to be
precise.

he was all
that mattered,
since last
september.

he was
everything
as far as she
could remember.

he was all
that was left,
but he was bereft
from her
by him.

his discoloration
painted her rainbows
lavender.
she
had nothing
to say.
in a cold,
dark room
where no one
else knew,
a little infant
made his way
to deep and
sound
slumber.

the music
played reminded
her
of last summer,
so hot, humid,
not much to
remember.

she faded,
when he did.
the walls
were white
and cold.

it's time for the
ocean sky to
gyrate its way to
crimson sunset.

she and he
were standing,
gazing at the
clueless crowd.

suddenly,
he began to
move and
touch her
velvet lips,
up & down,
all around.

there they went,
wilder than the
rush of the
screeching cars.

he asked for
her permission
for the stairs to be
less leveled,
less balanced,
surely torrid,
surely sultry.

as they went
with the
stairs not leveled,
lips but velvet
and still tangled,
necks' just clammy,
and their
way's so classy,
she lifted her
right limb
and twist it to
his left part,
she was
insensible.

the second time,
he responded
and grabbed her
right limb
towards his.

the time was too
rapid, too
swift.

he held her tight,
his hands
from her nape,
to her neck,
to her shoulders,
to her back,
down to her
waist
as she awaits
and made her chase
from the levels
of both's
wavering stairs.

everything ends
with a sweet
and light
touch of their
velvet lips.

the flower bloomed
never late,
never doomed.

the flower was
indeed,
hyacinth still,
but something
worth of
a pink carnation.
t'was a moonlit night
when she and he
had a fight.

t'was a blue sunlit
sky
when he and i
met.

t'was a translucent
daylight
where surprising
movements
took place.

at first,
t'was formidable,
daunting, and daring.

she was haunted.

the second time,
t'was sweet,
sweaty,
red,
and tired.

t'was
him and me
under the hidden,
private, and
quiet sun room,
full of kisses,
hugs,
breaths,
temptations,
chaos,
trickery,
and all
terpsichore.
the moon sings
with its agonizing
melodies,
carrying burden
of the light from
the sun,
shining from behind.

the moon cries
with the heavens,
still,
the sun right
from behind.

the moon laughs
every metaphor
it gives the sun,
still,
the sun is right
from behind.

the moon
and its sorrow
foster from
such winter,
frail breeze
which chills
the air
that hits the
sun.

and the sun
never saw the
moon,
the moon
never saw the
sun.

but luna
saw it first.

and the star
was never hers.
the dawn was
waving its
morning greetings
at me.

the dusk is
far from sight.

the sunrise was
singing the luna's
song, still.

the morning breeze
had such ambience
with lesser interests.

noontime approaches
and touches
her skin.

the afternoon sunshine
fell to the grounds,
ghastly indeed.

dusk haunted her
down and asked
her to die.

but the evening
moonlight caressed
her softly,
gently,
quietly.

the midnight satellite,
with its relentless
love for the sun,
seem to be too frail,
too feeble, and blind.

but in truth,
he was all
that mattered,
when she wasn't.
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