I watched you
write me into a poem,
your old shirt cuffs ironed to a shine.
We are all in a sonnet for the unlucky,
far from who we want to be, known
only to ourselves and those who mine,
like you, the language of subtlety.
your old shirt cuffs ironed to a shine.
We are all in a sonnet for the unlucky,
far from who we want to be, known
only to ourselves and those who mine,
like you, the language of subtlety.
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