only he knows
that she’s made purely of mysterious magenta sparkles
and that to her
sunny warm days are good,
but only next to
dark and windy nights
most pleasant
for an inappropriate walk
or two
or three…
counting stops amounting,
numbers are useless,
it’s a fine evening
to never stop strolling
and tiptoeing
along the periphery of hand-holding
amongst the silvery stars

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