It’s just that damn cliche:
I miss
our kiss.

Your mouth wrestling
with mine,
with excuses

and searching hearts, seeking

For lost time.

We were two wild birds fluttering wings,
making noises, coos,
next to the bookstore.

Full of racks of used poets,
all of them used, weathered,
their author bios
Peering at us through the windows.

Through the rain.

I wish I had stayed.


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