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Rated: E · Poetry · Food/Cooking · #1613293
about a soup at an indian restaurent. how i felt.
I sat down, he spoke and then you came to me.
your not mine, but I was cold and you are warm.
Holding the spoon, wondering what to exsspect.
I tasted it, it tasted lovely.
A feeling, I have never know and could never explain till now.

As if I had with a poloroid camera.
Waiting for the perfect shot, of this boy.
Blue eyed beauty, calm and serene.
Click, then the flash and then the moment passed.
I held the photo in my hand.
feeling accomplished to have captured this boy I have never knew and will never know.
But he was beautiful.
Suddenly a gust of wind goes by, and I lose the photo, oh my:P.
in sadness, with no hope, I will never dispair.
The photo was mine, i cought his beauty.
somone else will find my photo and have his beauty.

thats the feeling of the sad soup.

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