Asunder
As the migration toward love
is away from the some-other-thing,
have I been ungrateful for the distinction?
Are not sugars only
multiples and divisors
of promises kept between
listening, preciousness in the layers
of flowers as I wrap around you
finding each curvature to creep into.
Are we not the same soul?
Were we not chosen?
I am sorry for mistaking you
for someone else less obvious.
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