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I look back and forth and
cross the road, to the
eastern side, painted
finely, fading on each paper,
bleeding into the next page
and a blush on her face,
she knows what the colour means.
I look into the young man
as he has a brush, but he
doesn’t know that I can
see him or feel him or that
he is a petal and that she is
gravity, going to suck him down
soon enough, but he can’t hear me
and I am worried about the
gravitas.

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