I looked at photos of you

like paintings in a museum

you were just 

a plain old mountainside

a vignette of a harbor 

full of faded colors

yet your description boasted of 

grandeur, of some artist 

I probably hadn’t heard of—

You were always going to be 


I should have known 

from the moment you hugged me

but I believed every word

that the museum fed me.

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