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January 2, 2014

I gave you a flower, red
like a passionate novel,
and I could have sworn
that the colour of your veins

pulsed brighter to match it.
Its reflection bloomed in the
garden of your eyes and drew
me in like the greatest artist.

And I was like a squid
(a squid?) in the dark pools
of your irises; that is, a
mysterious and wiggling

beast in the darkness of
the greatest abyss, hardly
even aware of the colours
that the sunshine make dance

on the surface of the sea.
I read you a novel, the words
like a treaty between nations
but also like a lullaby, and

I could have read forever,
except the lines on the page
were colourless and the lines
on your skin that made you

look like a dragon if I looked
close enough and squinted
were full of animated tones,
and so I passed the pages

over to you. That’s when the
treaty was signed. That’s
when the child was asleep
and the mother kept singing

softly to the rustling trees
and the silence of the stars.
Your eyes moved from word
to word and formed their

shapes before their sound
came out from between your
lips, which parted like a
favourite chapter, or the

centerfold of a stapled booklet
(only softer and with far
more words inside). And
so passed the evening.

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