I can't just behold and not say something,
it's much too big just to stay
there, unfolding,
not to be touched, in front of me.
It's calling:
his streaky, invisible hair,
tickles my nose.
Little fingers of scent,
feathers the flying fish
lost long ago…
'
Come to me!', you say,
'
scratch me,
dissect me and make your pen
define me
and in doing so, change me into something
that I am not.
Make me pretty as a picture.
If only you knew…
'cos you don't know who am I,
who I was,
when we first got together…
How do you dare
to tell me you can write me?'
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