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Your art; your painted word; your beautiful man in grey, looking down, cast in shadow: these all these things brought me here.

Your aloofness is beginning to wear.

Never catch a dream. Never come so close as I have. On more thorough inspection it may wash away and twist, unrecognizable. The poetic embrace of your adornments and affected manners made me weak. Now they are crumbling. I am tired, too tired to trace them.

Beautiful, beautiful; too beautiful.

(Maybe this is just my private self, trying to tell myself that I am leaving you.)

All your twisted passageways made you finer, more complicated, a piece of art yourself to puzzle out, almost painted like a dream I wished to own. Your way of talking, of pushing away and of silence drew like gossamers a new pattern -– but now only make me uncomfortable in my skin. Your way, your subtle, mysterious way that now always seems the same ... the fine and silvery webs that veiled your face through a hint of moon have fallen (fallen fallen) and stand, dusty, like heaps of trash that I am annoyed to have to heave through every day.

(The way you turned this morning said it all, turned away, waved away, ended the conversation with a grin that is your lack of interest with the words said it all. Too cute, too cute for words...

I do not dare to stay.)

My dear: your beauty I cannot get through has grown cold.

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