I keep thinking I’m not 
in love with you
to find I don’t know what
love is.
Timbers
with a far away
deforestation glance
like I’ve mowed over
every eyelash that
surrounds your sea
of green.

I get it.
you are not for me
but I swear you
know that all the
tired monks are
rooting us on.

Perhaps we will never
meet
like sea foam thins out
before it can reach
the lonesome lover–
the equally tired shore

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