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Your books of poetry
traveled 14 hours by air
just to get to me
I had a mind to
line them on my shelf
among Gabô and Neruda
even Shakespeare
and turn you into
an ideal
a reading material
a testament to greatness
instead of a
flesh-and-blood man

but I underestimated
your capacity
to break my heart
across the distance
and to carefully
sew it back up
all in the span
of one reading

yours is a subject
that never gets tired
a garden that
stays green and in bloom
no matter how many feet
have walked on it

so I sit here
on this granite-topped table
a box of dark chocolate
by my elbow
and from dusk till dawn
my fingers are intimate
with your words
and I feel you
ever so close

so close

you could very well be
whispering in my ear
you hands could very well be
rubbing my back
that has been oiled
by your verses
you’re more real to me now
than you’ve ever been

you make love
you make love pure again
and poetry its vessel
you make the soil
of my passion
fertile again
and I thank you
for blessing me,
Mr. Love Poet