Three words, nine months later, like a
Distant pregnancy birthing this
Shadow of a thing in our minds
But a scythe of a thing in
"Reality;"
What is that?
This? What are they
But three words blowing
On a windy office breeze,
Rustling papers slightly
Requiring a bit of tamping
So that the numbers
Don't go amiss.
Even though we know
Under the tamping
Blows a rageful bliss that is just
Beneath our fingertips
And clothes
And the words express it all
Despite our best intentions.
I love you.
(Too.)
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