I always loved you. It tore me apart
the way the luminaries were in different
directions. All the words within the letters
I had wrote; the letters of the words
in sequences. This real dynamic love
within vernacular reconstitutes
itself in trines, builds up geometries
about us. Does a circle have no sides?
A cycle in a cycle in a cadence,
this propagating, self-similar nonsense
I'm just imagining. The turning love
of verse is like the stars that move above
us in calendric patterns. I have always
loved you in the ways that I do now.
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