Poetry On Odyssey: "Granite"

Running your hand against mine

Sterile, formal, and cold

I wandered through fallacies of meaning

Trying to chart,

That which was never written in the stars

And I etch your eyes between the constellations

Those gentle things,

Misconstrued for distraction

My inner molten plasma

Is dashed by averted eyes

Unwilling glances, and pastel greens.

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