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There are things she does
I don't even know what they mean, Like her secret e-mail address "ultramarine"(@james.dean) Where inside she wears dresses and sunglasses unseen by the eye of man, Dancing before my eyes on the other side of time again and again and again, Like a leaf jumping from a leap to another, And like a lonely Christ dancing on water with the ghost of Marie Magdalene, She is always there on the shore of the lake, always reciting for me every time a poem I hadn't heard before putted down in a cold autumn by the torment of Blake... There are things she does in a manner I cannot comprehend, as letting me predict her coming by the rain, the whisper of trees and by the waves of her scent, Never here, never here, but always hugging me with the vagueness of space, In a story she gives life to in the sensitivity of a tear so vivid, so vivid, you can almost taste.
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