was it not

by
was it not my purpose to fall in love with you
but to be happy, to taste your wildish passion,
the magic of a miracle you are, my storyteller,
the writer costumed as a soldier of the words
using the polychromic vestments of illusions
provoking me, confessing till I'm pouring down
amazing, for I hate you so much as I miss you

poetic audience

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