I should be asking myself how the poets did it
Writing about beauty when there is little more to do but sigh
And stare at the way his eyes glimmer against the sunlight and reflect the bright pink off the setting sun
While the birds circle their own world, playing their concerto
Oblivious of the part they are playing in my love song
His hands shielding himself from the harshness the weather has exposed
Or maybe from my burning gaze attempting to save something as precious as the poets muse
Because I know as soon as I look away it will be gone
And I will be left with a vaporous trail of sweet nothings
And melt into a pool of stupidity
From where one certainly couldn’t conjure up a poem
So I must refrain and remain content letting the poem breeze through me and releasing it back into the atmosphere
Because there is no time to write what I see
Your hands, layed flat like a beautiful plane
Against the curvature of your face
As the sun recedes into the background
And takes with it, your light.
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