How the hell were we ever supposed to deal with her: a perfectly imperfect face, so close to smitten I was very nearly twice bitten
Time will always stand still when in her crazed company
She smiles and gets to remind me as to just why I am still here
That perfectly imperfect bridge of an otherwise button-nose, freckled and relatively made-up
Christ, to kiss those lips – not so much bee-stung as laced in golden-syrup honey right before the big sting
She brings with her all kinds of magic; what is downright tragedy for some will always turn out to be bordering upon pristine for a few far more handsome others
If only I wasn’t sent here as her shadow, her only ghost

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