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Where are you,
Hollywood fashioned
and debonair,
hallowed by
the captivating sun
that cannot rival your
aesthetic brilliance
and envies your luminosity
and a moonlight that
falls on you beautifully,
where are you?
I don’t know
where you are
but I know where
you are not:
here,
where you can just
stand still
and will time
to do the same
while I paint your portrait
with loving verses
as an homage to the reality
that was kind enough
to create you

Where are you?
Probably driving your Jaguar
across the watermarked pages
of some supermodel’s
romantic anthology,
your visits marking
the beginning and ending
of each chapter.
Oh, won’t you lend
the lyrical quality
of your soul
to me,
and bring my
color-blind movies
to life?
Because I’m searching for you
haphazard,
punch-drunk and
not knowing where
or how to look,
a starstruck somnambulist
sleepwalking dangerously
on the balusters at
the balcony’s edge
of sanity
just from knowing you

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