grip of the sun
the rustling of your thought
immortalized on the canvas of my soul,
it's like a docile whisper...
•
and I don't hide you... —
your daily routines have deep-rooted
on my joy's lips, dementedly
•
and I love you…
[but how much I love you...?], you see,
this poem, I didn't write it yet
•
it nested itself in your chest, and beats,
[I don't know exactly in which wing], but
its vibe feels in the grip of the sun

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