She's a ginormous goddess, fresh and natural
wizened through falls, gaining so much grace
she is a champion female with a divine touch
intelligence composed, understated, brilliant.
Her focus, an arc of grace, dances in a ballet
once upon a time, awing audiences on stage.
She is my self-reflection perfected in a woman
I have only adored more, each and every way.
But now that she's returned, be glad your late.
For I am not so feminine, nor nearly as brilliant
and things slow to me, while others keep pace.
I don't see an end coming to always being last.
I have gotten a solid point in this never-ending.
Complicated naivete in reserve, forward hurts.
Whatever comes last, of and out, of this moment
is my tradition, I have no one to blame but myself.
I write this poem for love, celebrating wonder
over my capacity to still feel love in my heart
especially for her, and hearing hers still return.
Just doesn't matter much to anyone anymore.
I've been waiting all my life for a girl like her
whose virtuosity is a flowering within my heart
I may yet get the rep, so often weeping starts
It took days at one point for me, to understand
I am making almost everything up in my head.
When I came to, I was once again sobbing
over the realization our love is fading history
and what I was engaging, all virtual in limit.
Leading once again to the original tragedy
whence I lost the chance as her Valentine.
Forever now without her deepest intimacy
seems worse for being my principle suffering
in ongoing struggle with wheels on the spin.
She is really so incredibly hot, love so true
Thus a poem to remember my role to wit
with a Valentine requeim made to honor
and the rest to recall how losing post felt
with a note on being humbled by love
and so it is even at the time of this write
My love for her was never greater, despite
knowing all is ruined inward, a future black.
© 2022011, rjduberg
dedicated to Stephie
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