The way you stand after stretching
Line of your back under your shirt
Soft break of your voice when you speak low
The ending of something bigger than it seems
Or maybe not as big,
An expanded cadence of action
Maybe the soft tilt of your head towards the window,
Or the drum of your fingers on the table
Complete the piece
Let me look back on the crescendo of your silent music
Look away, pretend you didn’t in the first place,
Notice the flower drawn in your book as if it’s the first time,
Chamomile, jasmine, gunpowder green,
Steam the same colour as it always is,
Every day, in three distinct choruses-
Blue fade to black, silver fade to black, black to black,
The little things become obsessions,
Swing and hit, swing and miss, we’re all the same grass in the end.
It’s the way you fix your hair and the certain lilt of words and maybe the cast of your eyes downwards.
Why look elsewhere when your eyes have every colour in them already?
Blue, hazel, green, look like they’ve been tossed in with a
Ship in a bottle and set free to drift somewhere kinder than here,

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someone special to me