the beam of the waxed moon
touches the corner of
this mind that carry only
the scent of you, provoked by
statues that cry still, unmoved
framing the moment when
you first held my hand
stones drenched by a
perpetual stare, from a prism
that marks the sound
of white upon shores we
dare explore and desire and
so delicately let dissolve
in secret, in passing.
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