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    four

    i find art in the outline of you that my eyes trace as you sleep, the gap between your lips as you breathe. verses to a song unwritten are murmured with every rise and fall of your chest; the crescendo follows your profile as you gaze at me, all but worthy of a sculpture. the gleam in your eye is worthy of a book of its own- but i am not a writer. i am just a poet that finds inspiration in the slivers of air between us. a muse, some would call it, an obsession, others. but no matter who i am or what i create out of these lingering dreams, we are here

    now.

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