Sorry. I know love poems shouldn't existLike iridescent soap bubbles that float up to the sky,
your eyes
Like the New World Symphony playing for a hushed audience,
your voice
Like the white gull feathers when Icarus drowned,
the papers, fallen to the ground
When I pick them up for you
Your thanks are worth the oceans blue
And for your sake, beloved one,
As Icarus for the blazing sun,
I would gladly drown, too
but I just couldn't resist.
'Twas a mixture of hormones
and the feeling of being alone.



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