F11

You.

Me.

The National.

Budding hope squandered.

Intentions nullified when hearts wandered.

Blank canvas a blessing when creation is pressing.

Though the picture emerging was of souls converging, the background was entirely wrong.

Blinded by sand kicked up from our dance, missing an illusion thought real at first glance, hands I knew must release.

Adventurous care accompanied by a tip-toeing temptation to stare lest anything be misplaced; your mixture of hope and sweaty hair that rebelled and never stuck to your face. Everything proved too heavy a case.

The writing was perfect, calligraphy like water clumps on smooth rock, magnifying the surface. Practice though, brought uncertainty, like a clay jar pulled too soon from the furnace. And much like the rabbits our momentum could not sustain, though unlike Fibonacci we idealized in vain. Looking backwards it is clear, and mapped out so plain.

This sequence was true from the start, though my choice wasn’t you and that weighs on my heart.

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