10

My Lord arrives in the image of Abby.

Seventeen,

With Precambrian eyes.

Byzantine braids

Falling on Merino wool.

Neoclassical lips,

Emotive and still.

And she sits on my couch, 

And asks for tea.

Her feet remind me of lavender.

Her sadness reminds me of something,

Something simple, 

And unusually true,

Something as beautiful as you.

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