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If Chance herself took to crochet and our lives she wove as separate threads into a swollen yarn, then Fate again has undone the efforts of his foe leaving us part wound and waiting for another artist's needle. Now here in a carnation pistil I lie recounting the crossing of our paths trying to remember where I saw you last. We are in our bathing suits, barefoot, scooping up sand with cupped hands, kneeling as waves crash against horizon, as Zephyr blows the moon into an inner tube and myriad stars push the sun down behind the mountains. There is laughter. We are gliding across the wood floor, your gaze locked with handcuffs to the iris of my eye, hearts forcing blood into cheeks as crickets serenade the sandman past lilies in the river valley up through the door to the gym and sleep beckons to be invited in out of the cold. There is ardor. We are in control of parallel situations, gracefully mandating with body language the actions of our allies, dictating counteractions of adversaries despite the cat claws scratching with breath as sweat drops to floor and field while sunbeams fade to moon-shadows. There is passion. Now here in a carnation pistil I lie looking on silver linings of solid gold cores as passing seconds piece together an invisible puzzle, as Homer completes a circular simile after puzzling over every vital piece, as the echoes of his perfect point resonate in my bones- it was here that I saw you last: the asylum of my mind. |
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