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Sometimes our lives must seem like an old romantic comedy my love... Ten minutes from you to me from me to you I cross third as you cross seventh and we never know until the next day for sure but you smell the cologne in the air where I passed; or I your perfume and we know once again this monstrous gorgon named Timing struck out at us again.... Had I sat down on the bench beside the fountain to write this poem today we would have met as I finished it, your soft scent in the air touching mine and a hand on my arm as I write long hair brushing my shoulders and the pen, lost, the poemforgottenaswe The Snow Rises |