A cactus sits within an intricately decorated pot,
Alone on the windowsill,
Un-noticed as the door closes again.
The early-evening sun plays on his face,
Masked by a glistening beard,
Washed by tears.
Sat, back toward breakwater awash with moss,
Throwing stones to make waves.
Yet she’s stood.
Facing out at the window pane,
Eyes crossing paths with the sun, producing
The shadow of a flower on
Collar bones to break a hundred hearts.
A.T.
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