You believe that your eyes are portals, but your eyes are not portals, they do not tell me what you are, they show even less than they behold, of who the watcher is; your face is but a leaf, so soft and translucent, if I could just hold you with my fingers, if I could rub off your essences, and smell who you are, on the tips of my green-stained fingers, and imagine you are the color, then I can also believe that who you are is what I see, behind those half-moon eyes, and at the corners of your mouth, as if the miracle of you could be contained within a fragile house of hydrated dust, as if your definition begins and ends in this, this, this spectacular telescope, a lunar rover lost, in a soliloquy of stars.

o  O  o


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