I met her a day many Mays ago,
Storybook in structure yet storyboard in form,
Inkless pages from a fruitless vine,
She was flesh, she was pulp,
Sticky sweet, endorphins releasing tastefully,
A delicate recipe, with ingredients defining delicacy,
No brushstrokes necessary, this image solves the easel
Natural shades and brilliant tones,
Heart rates spike peering each trace the prisms spawn,
So subtle the hue one barely takes the time,
To pause would be to ingest,
The rhythmic flavor the artist so designed,
Like many others I feigned approach,
As confidence trembled from voice to throat,
A citric splash philosophy soured any optimism,
Any chance, left hollow; betrayed of opportunity,
To allow a moment, an attempt at thoughtful unknotting,
I do not know what became of her,
Often I dream of what could have been,
Perhaps someday, some other time,
I’d like to pretend that chance I’ll one day get,
I like to think she too regrets our time not spent
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