From a spark of brushing
arms a month before
Christmas, it has grown
into a flame which in
turn becomes fire when I
wake each morning and
think of you. The beat of my
heart started this thing the
rhythm of it sings a birdsong
of hope and of the future. I
cannot help but stare at
you; your beauty, your voice
and the glimmer of brilliance
in your every move proves
there is a fate in our connecting.
I rush to meet your words; herds
of wild horses couldn't keep me
from you. I am already filled
with the meanderings of butterflies
at the thought of seeing you again
tomorrow. Of meeting your eyes
with my own eyes. At the chance
we might brush arms again in a
spark of electricity, an explosion
of fatefulness.
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