You let down your strawberry blonde hair
every night from the tower window, and all
the long year it grew, a golden braid, closer
and closer to my outstretched fingertips.
On the night I jumped and grasped it,
a slippery fish in a moonlit stream, I climbed
to where I could feel your breath upon
my upturned face, and then I tumbled down
and broke my back upon the hard ground
when you cut your braid and turned away.
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Tag Cloud of Liminga
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