I wonder if you are really aware
of how photography gets timeless
at the falling of your hair
in its elegant brown mess
or how your hands are poems
of death and life and love and folly
like an ode by Keats or a song of Cohen's
touching the dirty and making it holy
in front of my naive eye,
deep into my every bone,
cause of this sigh
that the night hears, us both alone.
14/07/2020
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