pulling thistle

someone will question love,
your love,
and anything inbetween

it is true, pure,
an unconditional fever
with heavy
grounding roots
anchored to the center of the earth

full of sprouts

no longer question
I am still sitting alone in the garden
listening to your girlfriend

Avoid the red,
put on
occasional glasses
and stare at the scenery
avoid the ugly feelings
point to the flowers;
the trees,
and listen to what isn’t human

Let’s dance

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