you are

You are the streetlight that flickers,
Once, twice, and then returns, for a while,
to a solid beam.
I am the bench that lovers carve into,
J.H for E.M; reminders of something that will probably end.
You are the green light that Gatsby saw, every night, and hoped.
I am the tree at the end of autumn, one last leaf;
soon to be bare and desolate.
You are the lost final piece of a puzzle,
so important in your singularity.
I am the hay that the needle is lost in.
You are the needle that wonders are forged with.


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