The cup half full

I have been in love with the way
Her hair falls down her cheek,
The feathered splay of curls against the freckles on her face

The warmth in her eyes, the way dust settles on her skin, my lips on her spine
Tasting the freedom that splits into threads of fire
That chase up her porcelain skin
Into red rivulets of shy blushes.

I’ve held her hand, felt the pulse that throbs and aches, at the end of the day
For a man.

Ive ached in my dreams for him, for his smile and frown, the drawl of disinterested shuffling towards adulthood.
I’ve been addicted to his lies, the mixtapes, pushing the hair back from his forehead
Popcorn and movies.
In his eyes I could see the endless search, for a symmetrical pretty face.

I’ve seen the pale blue eyes and liquid limbs of the shy boy in school,
Made him laugh, held his trembling hand as he wore his first coat of blush-on.
I’ve felt his trembling breath on my face, his nervous mouth waiting for a kiss,
We walked in silence, as he spoke quietly,
Of a man.

I sat beside the dreamy poet with his charcoal pencil,
Watched his eyelashes touched with sunlight while he focused on his revolution,
We spoke of a wheel and how to break it, the politics of anger, love and hate,
Over spilt black coffee I understood, the pain he feels for the married woman he loves.

I have loved every love unrequited,
The perfect emotion devoid of reflection, yet the beauty of it never fades,
The completion seems absurd, my half circle is full.


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