I feel it more than I see it, her shape filling the spaces
new leaves will soon occupy, thit time of year, each year, will continue to
haunt me, teasing with the memories of how she felt an d how she still feels,
which I knew but never will know again, the wrong kind of green in my eyes,
pondering about the lucky man or men (maybe women, too) who get to feel what I’m
denied, a specter in my dreams that ruins me the luxury of even imagining that
man, those men or women, are me, and ow different it might feel being with her
as one of a multiple of men or women, the mind’s eye always exaggerating the
most banal act, when I might settle for a handshake or a kiss when even an orgy
would not be enough, contemplate every way imaginable in the absence of the
possible
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