The wind that blows the branches,
Of the tree you sit with,
Next to your love.
The wind that kisses a leaf,
Making it fall onto your open book.
The wind that strokes her face,
In a way you wish you could,
The wind that blows her hair,
Like an invisible admirer,
Mischievous and impersonal.
Strands of Asian-black,
Like tentacles reaching out,
Trying to touch what isn’t there,
But you are.
Although someday you won’t be.
Perhaps you’ll imitate the wind,
Be her invisible admirer,
Mischievous and personal;
Stroking her face,
The way you always wished you could.
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