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I seek you between the pixels
and the pixilated.
Electrons still smell of where you past.
Photons rearranged, your likeness
flutters into existence then fades again, as it begins to snow,..
a wrong wavelength.
If you were here, you'd see,
my hand in the air, with a foot on the couch.
An antenna stuffed awkwardly
in a sleeve. My fingers extending to the gods as..
I Ballance my loginhand technology.
Laughter iHear and twist my head, body and arms
this way and that... I'm getting close..I turn my head and..
...oh! " Hello honey, your not online?".
Sea Mar 2013
Tick

I yawn to the alarm
I drag my feet to shower
I tug on matching clothes.

Tick.

I scarf down plain cereal
Find socks, then put them on;
Cover with scuffed shoes, and I am done.

Tick.

Ihear the whirring of my engine; Soon
I park, I walk in,
I pretend to learn, I wanderlessly walk out.

Tick.

I stop at the red hexagons
Iwork five hours straight,
I go home to rest on my pillow

Tomorrow's the same day.
Imperfections is all I see still hiding deep within me, but I do it best. Hiding that  is mastermind of camouflage. It's easier to fold it nice and neat and tuck it away. It only works for so long when all the piles accumulate no more time to procrastinate. Put forth my time love emotion and utter devotion. Tick ,Tick,Tick; Ihear it running out. Live it to the fullest cause I won't be able to get it back. Not time lost, but happily found.....lets hope it sticks around
Jude kyrie Jul 2016
I have stopped writing love poems for you.
And please do not think this is a love poem.
Because I am finally over you at last.

I do not care to relive past moments of us.
Like when I saw you for the first time.
And the songs of angels rang in my heart.

I will never write a love poem for you again.
Like when we sheltered from the spring rain
Below a maple tree in muted olive greens
And the colour of its leaves
were the exact colour of your eyes.

I am finished with silly love poems
And I will never mention again
How I still stop and catch my breath
when I ihear a laugh
exactly like yours.
Or when
I see a woman from behind
And her hair is burnished gold
just like yours.

I am now quite over you.
I hardly ever think of you anymore.
Except perhaps in springtime.

But then

I should never think of springtime.
For that would surely
break my heart in two.

— The End —