#Day 638: She, A Summer Night

I forget somehow every night
How her voice sounds and
The way she whispered to me
Whims that I know nothing of.
But it comes back to me when
I close my eyes and finally lay
To rest, the wreckage of the day.
Of summer dresses I knew very little
But she dances in my mind
In the most intricate of frocks.
I liked the sun before she came along
Her soul half hidden like the moon
And laid down an eclipse
On my ignorance of emotion.
I fancied her very much and
Adored her more than I can portray.
She was a painting that had been
Painted over until it reached
Saturation, and tipped over into
The abyss of perfection.
If I had to write about her
I’d beg for volumes of books.
But in under twenty words
She was a wine stain on a
Satin table cloth, one that
I’d avoid doing laundry for.

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