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I stared at the moon last night,
her full, silver smile
tickling the discreet sky
and I thought,
she must’ve seen you,
somewhere,
walking along Arroyo Seco
or camping,
by Lake Tear of the Clouds;

Your eyes
in green and sparkles,
locking virgins and darkness
in flames, fierce,
and those lips,
musings for the skin;
your hands,
binding sunsets and oceans
of a past in amnesia.

Seasons have changed, twice,
from the blooming sour cherries
to the summer rain,
from the lush grapes in vineyards
to the window crystals
carving winter life,
I’ve lost the count on
nonsense and forlorn nights,
on fires suffocating without
honesty and candle lights,
but I still remember
the waterfalls of green in your eyes.

Fountain drops

©2013, B. T., All rights reserved

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