Things scrawled on the edges

That one month (it was September)

our hearts looked squarely at each other

Mine cried out Yes! and clapped its hands

And yours tried to think of a kind way

to excuse itself.

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This little rabbit

Has a terrible habit

Of picking his nose and flinging it.

This little heron

Was never preparing

Preferring instead on winging it.

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Yesterday I compared you to the Sea and you protested

but the Sea is moody with turbulent depths fed by drowned sorrows.

I sit staring at the Sea, trying and trying to love it enough.

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Today I sat by the Sea and wrote a poem about your smile –

how it leaps unexpectedly to your face, radiating an innocent joy

and how, when it appears through something I’ve said or done,

I’m humbled, and feel weak.

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I never want to settle. I want to live a tidal life, giving in to the push and pull, slowly waxing and waning, always transitioning from one state of beauty to the next.