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there I was
a mere dust mote of humanity
                                      in this place
this spiritual monument to life
                                          to history
mindful of the way
                  it wrapped its snug
                        but silken gloves
around the hands of my perception

your smile was a tease of affection
  as you enquired how I could
                amidst all this wonder
  wax lyrical about a curve of railing

how it felt to the touch
        a spiritual experience
                            where souls soar
among the grandeur
                  of a twinkling night sky

soothing reflections of deepest blue

it ignited senses
I marvelled the way  
  countless artists/architects
the bare skin of nature  
                              against my own

how it united us
        gave birth to concepts
                      I had yet to encounter
how it reminded me
                        time after time
                that we are all connected

you mocked me for that concept too
almost as much as I mock myself
what a enormous statement to make

yet as countless moons
                    have waxed and waned  
I have learnt that connection
                    between all living things
does not mean we love
                everyone and everything
      it simply dwells amongst us

an unspoken language
      spanning generations
                    of human experience
not always by mutual agreement
                                but in moments
where the heart does not need
              to harbour love or fondness

      it merely knowingly- exists
there’s a suitcase
in an unmarked grave
bearing your name                

my former self rests
alongside a fragment
of a ship
which floats no more        

that fateful journey
on the wings of sorrow
is buried forever

in a suitcase
fastened with three locks        
it’s my immutable, final
          ~ I love you
beautiful bright baubles
            helium infused

carry my melancholy

along with the final wisps
              of silken thread

from reawakened fingers
real sadness
doesn’t howl
or scream

it sits inside
your chest                
weeping softly

not wanting
to disturb
the exuberant air
around them
the sound of their distinct caws
     ebb and flow with the tide

their majestic swoop earthwards
        is rewarded with morsels
                      of fried fish

we morph into polka dots
                         of movement

as we gather beneath
            the breath of their wings

inhaling blue notes
          salt dancing on dry lips

limbs long since surrendered
             to sun bleached sands

the rise and fall
          of a cacophony of voices

with stories their eyes
                         cannot express

— The End —