Damp nights these days.Somber, set in their ways.Milking from them I get little.Some movies, a “night cap”Men to talk to for an hour, or two.Is this all we are here to do? Wait?Lesson learned; I will stop counting,but you’ve taken my booze, taken mymusic; I’m only a man after all. Onewho gripes as much as he swoons.There’s far too much talk: of birds, roses,the trees, winds, magic and so forth.A nice woman once traced her facewith jokes of mine, a kiss lit by the sparkof pure connection. And words used tomean something; to me, in general.See, we bundle up shoes, gather maps,get lost in translation, and forget all weultimately must do is stare deeply at therift before us. A thin white wire splits acoin into two halves: that of longing and love;we spend most days toggling betweenwhat is so deeply intertwined. I’m sittinghere now, in my childhood room, at mychildhood desk, while home for the weekend.Indebted to a boy who has lost many nightshere, and still, like good wine, I chooseto stare at him.
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