you’re a gray timber distance:

overcast.

dull and falling.

learning how to be gentle with does,

chrysanthemums, the faux antiques I left,

all the obloquious parts of yourself.

I’m a light shiver

wrapped in an afghan somewhere else,

sun with someone else. 

laugh resounding in buzzing

pages

for days, a string of 

soft adjectives capturing the stun of

unrequited silence, devouring you 

in mild cadence.

be gentle with yourself

and take cover in your recovering vituperation,

your newfound green,

forest of self-commendation

for trying to change.

hold a rose bud my way.

be gentle.

let the glare from my smile

blind you

in stages.

let the blossom it makes

shade you.

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