23.11.12

same old, ditto

Kid,
I miss the way
you often, once
revisited me like pickled ginger
between bites of bad-decision sushi.

and how I used to welcome you like oranges
tasting of a sweet, vivaldi winter.


but time is that great
village bandit,
showing up
hither and there 
breaking down all things
save beauty alone.
well,
and one thing also.

don't look at me
like i've got a lot
of arm up my sleeve;
in this novel,
both our names are in brackets.

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