12 3 17



fickle nighttime games strobes light fires
in minds like a spark in a mine but only
embers are left when we leave the dark i can taste
bass and haze and i wonder
are these the memories we frame hang up
on a wall retain their lack
of focus and their lack of shame as
dust builds up and the paper yellows until
the image fades and

your face may change under the weight of
age or time or cigarettes quelled underfoot but
i’m definitely still as awkward and as
willing to love as you once would

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