like someone you love
might fuss with your
hair. It's a trifle,
I know, but it doesn't
seem so. Even if
it doesn't seem much,
I love
how trifle and fuss
take care
over every stray
feather of thought,
tucked in and groomed
with doting touch.
I could fuss
by the light of the moon,
if given a chance
for a full fifteen minutes, or
considerately more
on you, in minute
significant ways.
It would be a swoon
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