And if my love …

And if my love is

nothing but the countdown of

clocks biological, then

what I felt for you 

two was just numbers and

minutes and very much

seconds of desserts: desserts

of a nature, oh 

quite just, in

my case.

And if my love will always

be this clock of rigid

proximity, when shall I ever 

love for real?

Or is this never to be

my destiny?

Is that what you’re saying

to me all this 

long

rhyme?

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