On the slick page,
he looks wistfully
into his new lady’s eyes.
I know that look.
But it isn’t his adoring
that meets mine.
Some may not see it,
but it isn’t it for them
to find between us.
Whether stormy gray
or cloudlessly blue,
your eyes find mine.
And when they do,
I am in the picture
hair blown, sun dewed.
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