Saudade
Few things are as arresting
As clouds and the shapes they make.
Isn't it surreal how they hang
In a lazy listless lull –
Moving still
Like ponds
Moulding fancies
Like daydreams.
Visceral ephemera that almost
Look like things you wish were real –
A familiar smile
Disguised as floating lather
Or pearly impressions
Of her afro hair.
Then you reach to touch the sky and realise
That the clouds are never really there.
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