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Nobody, except you, can do it right
to feel the morning-ache, the playful
up and down of the iris. But, when
we rubbed against eachother, you gave
a sound of pitch. You told me to give
up, and I told you to be quiet, now. But still.
A door shuts. A voice is clipped. A 
want is illuminated. 

You told me to ignore all come-ons, 
Impressionistic. A beautiful exorbitance. 
We are all impressionists. 
Cutting the stem before it’s beautiful. 
I dreamt of careful beauty.
You stepped in my nights, like I was
Somebody new. 
You dreamt of the country,
And I did too.
Your energies wasted on small things.
I admire you as Vines die.
You’re very pretty
I want to understand this boy
in vague, GCSE versions
Of small language. 


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