Certain things are known
about a girl named Florence.
She has skin of soft chamomile;
the moon sets it a steep every night.
She feels like pain
you never want to lose.
She smells like food being cooked
while you’re in the shower —
she reminds you
that you are cared for.
Like wind taking your hair,
she allows you to see again.
She is love.
She is Shakespeare,
and she is Florence.

She brings you out of a deep sleep,
woozy and unstable.
She breathes air into your lungs
so you can lull lullabies of loving
to Florence.
The rain leans away from her lips,
believing them moist enough.
The people who have kissed them
dream of kissing them again.
The people who haven’t
dream they are dead;
death being the closest
to having lived
on those lips.
It is magic,
It is Christmas,
and it is Florence.

If you lay eyes on her,
you’ll be changed,
your molecules will rearrange.
You’ll give your life
just for a glance
or a little smile.
She is a girl named Florence,
who wishes her name was Sally.

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