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I, as always stare at the hopeless realities of love,
Looking at the vague picture of her, full of beauty and so impracticable to bear.
Contemplating daily praises to my dove,
As if she was mine to care.
I know too well of her but only to the extent of an admirer.
Watching every step she makes.
Even the most drastic encounter with her lover.
Though she never sings a hymn of thanks.
I continue to protect her as if she was mine,
Cleaning every mess she makes.
She’s always in my mind.
I don’t care of the many fallacies that breaks.
I’m infatuated with her style,
But when I heed to someone I don’t intend to wound.
The least I could do is to tile,
But the greatest is to be your fan and that I could.