I should be continuing a poem
About you, Camille, with lines like:
I steal moments witnessing
How your eyes, crystalline like marbles,
Reflect the colors of stained-glass butterflies
Hovering over sun-kissed ripples...
But my brain, keeper of all
Realities, all madness, all beauty,
Rests in neural slumber.
Too tired from indulging
Too much in a selfish purpose:
Imagining you as a little girl
Lost in the labyrinth of my love.
Pieces of a broken poem are swept away
In the young hours of a Monday.
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