It really is this beautiful

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By A. Olavarria


Even when the man next to me yells into the phone “I have Hep B, I have Hep C, and I miss Pam. I need Pam”

Even when the stars become lazy and hide their light from the trail of broken glass on unsuspecting feet

And the Grey St walker, tired from kneeling falls asleep on my shoulder

Even when the Sunday-morning vendor implores me to wake up to the forces that control this world, before cursing me for not spending money on a metal spoon.

It really is this beautiful

And I tell you so all the time

Even knowing, that you know this place

And all the secrets that I don’t

Even knowing that on the same ground that I sit and try to picture another time

You have known that time does not follow a linear hour

It really is this beautiful

And the scent of holiness stays on the skin longer than the mundanities of a Saturday night

Even knowing you believe in none of these things

But knowing as I do

That you believe in beauty and midnight truths

And the stories the stars tell

I borrow silver to bribe the moon

And I make a note to remind myself to tell you

How it really is this beautiful



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