Lucky

I find myself sitting on the edge of a cliff,
Overlooking the world without end, wave upon
Wave diminishing into the invisible aperture
Of the far, flat horizon. Messages in bottles.
And yet she is just across the room, a seated
Portrait of self-possession and reserve, eyes
Like wells of magnetism and walls of repulsion.
And still I imagine feeling the occasional
Shy and restless tug of a heartstring unbowed,
Bow unbent, arrows like feathers on the ground.
Eyes like summer skies, she is slight and fierce
As a kestrel, beautiful and lighter than air.
Eyes alight, the sun rises, and my precipice
Spins with the vertigo of foresight and desire,
Capable of both sublime bluff and sublime truth.
Love always longs to be born, an unbearable wait.

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