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There's this person I know who always hangs around the gardens flanking Wangshu Inn. They're pretty, with a solemn face and glazed eyes. I do not concern myself with mortal affairs, but somehow they draw my interest and catch my eyes, like a trinket glittering underneath the sun.
I've never been much of a poet— I don't think I could be one anyway— but they have this effect on me, this itch to spill the strange, foreign thing bubbling within me. They have heaven framed in their eyes and the stars stitched onto their skin and moonlight braided in their hair. Even holding their name in my crooked, unclean mouth feels sinful.
I watch from afar as they plop onto the grass and rest at the base of a tree. Even from here I can feel their aura waver with sunshine and something warm and graceful and divine— something wistful.
I guess I've always wanted to taste a ray of sunshine on my tongue.
They push a strand of [h/c] hair from their face, picking the roses at their feet, and I stare. I stare at their soft eyes, glazed over like stars against glass, and their flushed cheeks, like strawberries, and their lips, pink like clumsy bumblebees and blushed and soft.
Common sense is screaming at me to move on with my day, the thing in my chest says no. My brain is spitting words like pretty and dazed and strange.
All I can think is please look at me.
You look at me.
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