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You often told me angels failed to glide
with my ethereal grace; yes, even vixen Eris
could not cause such rousing chaos. You, yearning, sighed,
and with reckless bravado, you preached Paris,
Venice, Bangkok, Rome, and Ireland. Instead,
we hunted romance in Las Vegas lights.
Back home: lipstick gone, bland toothpaste in its stead,
Passionate nights languish into wrangling fights.
Chaos contained, footsteps firm, Cupid yawned and passed us by.
Amid the missing socks, the crumpled sheets, Gravity,
swift, turned back and plucked us from our breathless sky.
Here, no scandal, no glaring depravity,
but it seems that between debt and apron strings,
even angels lose their wings.
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